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Sib  J^sh-a  R-n-lds  in  a  Domino.     Dr.  G-ldsm-th  in  an  Old  English  Dress. 


ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 


BY 


W.   M.    THACKERAY, 


VANITY  FAIR,"  " PENDENNIS,"  "THE  NEWCOMES,"  "ESMOND, 
"THE  FOUR  GEORGES,"  "ADVENTURES  OF  PHILIP,"  &c. 


fcOitl)  Illustrations. 


REPRINTED  FROM  THE  "CORNHILL  MAGAZINE.' 


NEW    YORK: 

HARPER  &    BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN    8  Q  U  A  B  K. 

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Works  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 


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CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

On  a  Lazy,  Idle  Boy 9 

On  Two  Children  in  Black 18 

On  Ribbons 28 

On  some  late  Great  Victories 48 

Thorns  in  the  Cushion 58 

On  Screens  in  Dining-rooms 71 

Tunbridge  Toys 81 

De  Juventute 91 

On  a  Joke  I  once  heard  from  the  late  Thomas  Hood..  113 

Round  about  the  Christmas-tree 128 

On  a  Chalk-mark  on  the  Door 141 

On  being  Found  Out 158 

On  a  Hundred  Years  Hence 168 

Small-beer  Chronicle 180 

Ogres 193 

On  Two  Roundabout  Papers  which  I  intended  to  Write  205 

A  Mississippi  Bubble 221 

On  Letts's  Diary 234 

Notes  of  a  Week's  Holiday ..,. 249 

Nil  Nisi  Bonum 281 


ON  A   LAZY,  IDLE   BOY. 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS. 


ON  A  LAZY  IDLE  BOY. 

I  had  occasion  to  pass  a  week  in  the  autumn  in 
the  little  old  town  of  Coire  or  Chur,  in  the  Grisons, 
where  lies  buried  that  very  ancient  British  king,  saint, 
and  martyr,  Lucius,*  who  founded  the  Church  of  St. 
Peter,  which  stands  opposite  the  house  No.  65  Corn- 
hill.  Few  people  note  the  church  nowadays,  and 
fewer  ever  heard  of  the  saint.  In  the  cathedral  at 
Chur,  his  statue  appears  surrounded  by  other  sainted 
persons  of  his  family.  With  tight  red  breeches,  a  Ro- 
man habit,  a  curly  brown  beard,  and  a  neat  little  gilt 
crown  and  sceptre,  he  stands,  a  very  comely  and  cheer- 
ful image ;  and,  from  what  I  may  call  his  peculiar  po- 
sition with  regard  to  No.  65  Cornhill,  I  beheld  this  fig- 
ure of  St.  Lucius  with  more  interest  than  I  should  have 
bestowed  upon  personages  who,  hierarchically,  are,  I 
dare  say,  his  superiors. 

*  Stow  quotes  the  inscription,  still  extant,  "from  the  table  fast 
chained  in  St.  Peter's  Church,  Cornhill;"  and  says  "he  was  after 
some  chronicle  buried  at  London,  and  after  some  chronicle  buried  at 
Clowcester" — but,  oh !  these  incorrect  chroniclers !  when  Alban  But- 
ler, in  the  Lives  of  the  Saints,  v.  xii.,  and  Murray's  Hand-book,  and 
the  sacristan  at  Chur,  all  say  Lucius  was  killed  there,  and  I  saw  his 
tomb  with  my  own  eves ! 

A  2 


10  ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS. 

The  pretty  little  city  stands,  so  to  speak,  at  the  end 
of  the  world — of  the  world  of  to-day,  the  world  of 
rapid  motion,  and  rushing  railways,  and  the  commerce 
and  intercourse  of  men.  From  the  northern  gate,  the 
iron  road  stretches  away  to  Zurich,  to  Basel,  to  Paris, 
to  home.  From  the  old  southern  barriers,  before  which 
a  little  river  rushes,  and  around  which  stretch  the 
crumbling  battlements  of  the  ancient  town,  the  road 
bears  the  slow  diligence  or  lagging  vetturino  by  the 
shallow  Khine,  through  the  awful  gorges  of  the  Yia 
Mala,  and  presently  over  the  Spliigen  to  the  shores  of 
Como. 

I  have  seldom  seen  a  place  more  quaint,  pretty, 
calm,  and  pastoral,  than  this  remote  little  Chur.  What 
need  have  the  inhabitants  for  walls  and  ramparts,  ex- 
cept to  build  summer-houses,  to  trail  vines,  and  hang 
clothes  to  dry  ?  No  enemies  approach  the  great  mould- 
ering gates ;  only  at  morn  and  even,  the  cows  come 
lowing  past  them,  the  village  maidens  chatter  merrily 
round  the  fountains,  and  babble  like  the  ever-voluble 
stream  that  flows  under  the  old  walls.  The  school- 
boys, with  book  and  satchel,  in  smart  uniforms,  march 
up  to  the  gymnasium,  and  return  thence  at  their  stated 
time.  There  is  one  coffee-house  in  the  town,  and  I 
see  one  old  gentleman  goes  to  it.  There  are  shops 
with  no  customers  seemingly,  and  the  lazy  tradesmen 
look  out  of  their  little  windows  at  the  single  stranger 
sauntering  by.  There  is  a  stall  with  baskets  of  queer 
little  black  grapes  and  apples,  and  a  pretty  brisk  trade 
with  half  a  dozen  urchins  standing  round.  But,  be- 
yond this,  there  is  scarce  any  talk  or  movement  in  the 
street.     There's  nobody  at  the  book-shop.     "If  you 


ON   A   LAZY   IDLE   BOY.  11 

will  have  the  goodness  to  come  again  in  an  hour," 
says  the  banker,  with  his  mouthful  of  dinner  at  one 
o'clock,  "you  can  have  the  money."  There  is  nobody 
at  the  hotel,  save  the  good  landlady,  the  kind  waiters, 
the  brisk  young  cook  who  ministers  to  you.  Nobody 
is  in  the  Protestant  church — (oh !  strange  sight,  the 
two  confessions  are  here  at  peace !) — nobody  in  the 
Catholic  church ;  until  the  sacristan,  from  his  snug 
abode  in  the  cathedral  close,  espies  the  traveler  eying 
the  monsters  and  pillars  before  the  old  shark-toothed 
arch  of  his  cathedral,  and  comes  out  (with  a  view  to 
remuneration  possibly)  and  opens  the  gate,  and  shows 
you  the  venerable  church,  and  the  queer  old  relics 
in  the  sacristy,  and  the  ancient  vestments  (a  black 
-  velvet  cope,  among  other  robes,  as  fresh  as  yesterday, 
and  presented  by  that  notorious  "pervert,"  Henry  of 
Navarre  and  France),  and  the  statue  of  St.  Lucius 
who  built  St.  Peter's  Church,  opposite  No.  65  Cornhill. 
What  a  quiet,  kind,  quaint,  pleasant,  pretty  old 
town  !  Has  it  been  asleep  these  hundreds  and  hund- 
reds of  years,  and  is  the  brisk  young  Prince  of  the 
Sidereal  Kealms  in  his  screaming  car  drawn  by  his 
snorting  steel  elephant  coming  to  waken  it?  Time 
was  when  there  must  have  been  life,  and  bustle,  and 
commerce  here.  Those  vast,  venerable  walls  were 
not  made  to  keep  out  cows,  but  men-at-arms  led  by 
fierce  captains,  who  prowled  about  the  gates,  and 
robbed  the  traders  as  they  passed  in  and  out  with 
their  bales,  their  goods,  their  pack-horses,  and  their 
wains.  Is  the  place  so  dead  that  even  the  clergy  of 
the  different  denominations  can't  quarrel?  "Why, 
seven  or  eight,  or  a  dozen,  or  fifteen  hundred  vears 


12  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

ago  (they  haven't  the  register,  over  the  way,  up  to 
that  remote  period.  I  dare  say  it  was  burnt  in  the 
fire  of  London) — a  dozen  hundred  years  ago,  when 
there  was  some  life  in  the  town,  St.  Lucius  was  stoned 
here  on  account  of  theological  differences,  after  found- 
ing our  church  in  Cornhill. 

There  was  a  sweet  pretty  river  walk  we  used  to 
take  in  the  evening,  and  mark  the  mountains  round 
glooming  with  a  deeper  purple ;  the  shades  creeping 
up  the  golden  walls ;  the  river  brawling,  the  cattle 
calling,  the  maids  and  chatterboxes  round  the  fount- 
ains babbling  and  bawling ;  and  several  times  in  the 
course  of  our  sober  walks  we  overtook  a  lazy  slouch- 
ing boy,  or  hobbledehoy,  with  a  rusty  coat,  and  trow- 
sers  not  too  long,  and  big  feet  trailing  lazily  one  after 
the  other,  and  large  lazy  hands  dawdling  from  out 
the  tight  sleeves,  and  in  the  lazy  hands  a  little  book, 
which  my  lad  held  up  to  his  face,  and  which  I  dare 
say  so  charmed  and  ravished  him  that  he  was  blind 
to  the  beautiful  sights  around  him;  unmindful,  I 
would  venture  to  lay  any  wager,  of  the  lessons  he  had 
to  learn  for  to-morrow ;  forgetful  of  mother  waiting 
supper,  and  father  preparing  a  scolding;  absorbed  ut- 
terly and  entirely  in  his  book. 

What  was  it  that  so  fascinated  the  young  student, 
as  he  stood  by  the  river  shore  ?  Not  the  Pons  Asino- 
rum.  What  book  so  delighted  him,  and  blinded  him 
to  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  so  that  he  did  not  care  to 
see  the  apple-woman  with  her  fruit,  or  (more  tempt- 
ing still  to  sons  of  Eve)  the  pretty  girls  with  their 
apple  cheeks,  who  laughed  and  prattled  round  the 
fountain?     What  was  the  book?     Do  you  suppose 


ON   A   LAZY   IDLE   BOY.  13 

it  was  Livy,  or  the  Greek  grammar?  No;  it  was  a 
Novel  that  you  were  reading,  you  lazy,  not  very 
clean,  good-for-nothing,  sensible  boy !  It  was  D'Ar- 
tagnan  locking  up  General  Monk  in  a  box,  or  almost 
succeeding  in  keeping  Charles  the  First's  head  on. 
It  was  the  prisoner  of  the  Chateau  d'lf  cutting  him- 
self out  of  the  sack  fifty  feet  under  water  (I  mention 
the  novels  I  like  best  myself — novels  without  love  or 
talking,  or  any  of  that  sort  of  nonsense,  but  contain- 
ing plenty  of  fighting,  escaping,  robbery,  and  rescu- 
ing)— cutting  himself  out  of  the  sack,  and  swimming 
to  the  island  of  Montecristo.  Oh  Dumas!  oh  thou 
brave,  kind,  gallant  old  Alexandre!  I  hereby  offer 
thee  homage,  and  give  thee  thanks  for  many  pleasant 
hours.  I  have  read  thee  (being  sick  in  bed)  for  thir- 
teen hours  of  a  happy  day,  and  had  the  ladies  of  the 
house  fighting  for  the  volumes.  Be  assured  that  lazy 
boy  was  reading  Dumas  (or  I  will  go  so  far  as  to  let 
the  reader  here  pronounce  the  eulogium,  or  insert  the 
name  of  his  favorite  author);  and  as  for  the  anger,  or, 
it  may  be,  the  reverberations  of  his  schoolmaster,  or 
the  remonstrances  of  his  father,  or  the  tender  plead- 
ings of  his  mother  that  he  should  not  let  the  supper 
grow  cold,  I  don't  believe  the  scapegrace  cared  one 
fig.     No !     Figs  are  sweet,  but  fictions  are  sweeter. 

Have  you  ever  seen  a  score  of  white-bearded,  white- 
robed  warriors,  or  grave  seniors  of  the  city,  seated  at 
the  gate  of  Jaffa  or  Bey  rout,  and  listening  to  the  story- 
teller reciting  his  marvels  out  of  Antra  or  the  Arabian 
Nights  ?  I  was  once  present  when  a  young  gentleman 
at  table  put  a  tart  away  from  him,  and  said  to  his 
neighbor,  the  Younger  Son  (with  rather  a  fatuous  air), 
"I  never  eat  sweets." 


14  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

"  Not  eat  sweets!  and  do  you  know  why?"  says  T. 

"Because  I  am  past  that  kind  of  thing,"  says  the 
young  gentleman. 

"Because  you  are  a  glutton  and  a  sot!"  cries  the 
elder  (and  Juvenis  winces  a  little).  "  All  people  who 
have  natural,  healthy  appetites,  love  sweets ;  all  chil- 
dren, all  women,  all  Eastern  people,  whose  tastes  are 
not  corrupted  by  gluttony  and  strong  drink."  And  a 
plateful  of  raspberries  and  cream  disappeared  before 
the  philosopher. 

You  take  the  allegory  ?  Novels  are  sweets.  All 
people  with  healthy  literary  appetites  love  them — al- 
most all  women ;  a  vast  number  of  clever,  hard-head- 
ed men.  Why,  one  of  the  most  learned  physicians  in 
England  said  to  me  only  yesterday,  "  I  have  just  read 
So-and-So  for  the  second  time"  (naming  one  of  Jones's 
exquisite  fictions).  Judges,  bishops,  chancellors,  math- 
ematicians, are  notorious  novel  readers,  as  well  as 
young  boys  and  sweet  girls,  and  their  kind,  tender 
mothers.  Who  has  not  read  about  Eldon,  and  how 
he  cried  over  novels  every  night  when  he  was  not  at 
whist  ? 

As  for  that  lazy,  naughty  boy  at  Chur,  I  doubt 
whether  he  will  like  novels  when  he  is  thirty  years  of 
age.  He  is  taking  too  great  a  glut  of  them  now.  He 
is  eating  jelly  until  he  will  be  sick.  He  will  know 
most  plots  by  the  time  he  is  twenty,  so  that  he  will 
never  be  surprised  when  the  Stranger  turns  out  to  be 
the  rightful  earl — when  the  old  waterman,  throwing 
off  his  beggarly  gabardine,  shows  his  stars  and  the 
collars  of  his  various  orders,  and,  clasping  Antonia  to 
his  bosom,  proves  himself  to  be  the  prince,  her  long- 


ON   A   LAZY   IDLE   BOY.  15 

lost  father.  He  will  recognize  the  novelists'  same 
characters,  though  they  appear  in  red-heeled  pumps 
and  ailes-de-pigeon,  or  the  garb  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. He  will  get  weary  of  sweets,  as  boys  of  private 
schools  grow  (or  used  to  -grow,  for  I  have  done  grow- 
ing some  little  time  myself,  and  the  practice  may  have 
ended  too) — as  private  school-boys  used  to  grow  tired 
of  the  pudding  before  their  mutton  at  dinner. 

And  pray  what  is  the  moral  of  this  apologue  ?  The 
moral  I  take  to  be  this :  the  appetite  for  novels  ex- 
tending to  the  end  of  the  world ;  far  away  in  the  froz- 
en deep,  the  sailors  reading  them  to  one  another  dur- 
ing the  endless  night;  far  away  under  the  Syrian  stars, 
the  solemn  sheikhs  and  elders  hearkening  to  the  poet 
as  he  recites  his  tales ;  far  away  in  the  Indian  camps, 
where  the  soldiers  listen  to 's  tales,  or 's,  aft- 
er the  hot  day's  march ;  far  away  in  little  Chur  yon- 
der, where  the  lazy  boy  pores  over  the  fond  volume, 
and  drinks  it. in  with  all  his  eyes;  the  demand  being 
what  we  know  it  is,  the  merchant  must  supply  it,  as 
he  will  supply  saddles  and  pale  ale  for  Bombay  or 
Calcutta. 

But  as  surely  as  the  cadet  drinks  too  much  pale  ale, 
it  will  disagree  with  him ;  and  so  surely,  dear  youth, 
will  too  much  novels  cloy  on  thee.  I  wonder,  do 
novel  writers  themselves  read  many  novels  ?  If  you 
go  into  Gunter's,  you  don't  see  those  charming  young 
ladies  (to  whom  I  present  my  most  respectful  compli- 
ments) eating  tarts  and  ices,  but  at  the  proper  even- 
tide they  have  good  plain  wholesome  tea  and  bread 
and  butter.  Can  any  body  tell  me  does  the  author 
of  the  Tale  of  Two  Cities  read  novels?  does  the  author 


16  ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS. 

of  the  Tower  of  London  devour  romances?  does  the 
dashing  Harry  Lorrequer  delight  in  Plain  or  Ringlets 
or  Sponge's  Sporting  Tour  ?  Does  the  veteran,  from 
whose  flowing  pen  we  had  the  books  which  delight- 
ed our  young  days,  Darnley,  and  Richelieu,  and  De 
VOrme*  relish  the  works  of  Alexandre  the  Great,  and 
thrill  over  the  Three  Musqueteers?  Does  the  accom- 
plished author  of  the  Caxtons  read  the  other  tales  in 
Blackwood?  (For  example,  that  ghost-story  printed 
last  August,  and  which,  for  my  part,  though  I  read  it 
in  the  public  reading-room  at  the  Pavilion  Hotel  at 
Folkestone,  I  protest  frightened  me  so  that  I  scarce 
dared  look  over  my  shoulder.)  Does  Uncle  Tom  ad- 
mire Adam  Bede  ;  and  does  the  author  of  the  Vicar  of 
Wrexhill  laugh  over  the  Warden  and  the  Three  Clerks  f 
Dear  youth  of  ingenuous  countenance  and  ingenuous 
pudor!  I  make  no  doubt  that  the  eminent  parties 
above  named  all  partake  of  novels  in  moderation — eat 
jellies — but  mainly  nourish  themselves  upon  whole- 
some roast  and  boiled. 

Here,  dear  youth  aforesaid !  our  Cornhill  Maga- 
zine owners  strive  to  provide  thee  with  facts  as  well 
as  fiction;  and  though  it  does  not  become  them  to 
brag  of  their  Ordinary,  at  least  they  invite  thee  to  a 
table  where  thou  shalt  sit  in  good  company.  That 
story  of  the  Fox  was  written  by  one  of  the  gallant  sea- 
men who  sought  for  poor  Franklin  under  the  awful 
Arctic"  Night;  that  account  of  China  is  told  by  the 

*  By  the  way,  what  a  strange  fate  is  that  which  befell  the  veteran 
novelist !  He  was  appointed  her  majesty's  consul  general  in  Venice, 
the  only  city  in  Europe  where  the  famous  "Two  Cavaliers"  can  not 
by  any  possibility  be  seen  riding  together. 


ON   A   LAZY    IDLE   BOY.  17 

man  of  all  the  empire  most  likely  to  know  of  what  he 
speaks ;  those  pages  regarding  Volunteers  come  from 
an  honored  hand  that  has  borne  the  sword  in  a  hund- 
red famous  fields,  and  pointed  the  British  guns  in  the 
greatest  siege  in  the  world. 

Shall  we  point  out  others  ?  We  are  fellow-travel- 
ers, and  shall  make  acquaintance  as  the  voyage  pro- 
ceeds. In  the  Atlantic  steamers,  on  the  first  day  out 
(and  on  high  and  holidays  subsequently),  the  jellies 
set  down  on  table  are  richly  ornamented  ;  medioque  in 
fonte  leporum  rise  the  American  and  British  flags  nobly 
emblazoned  in  tin.  As  the  passengers  remark  this 
pleasing  phenomenon,  the  captain  no  doubt  improves 
the  occasion  by  expressing  a  hope,  to  his  right  and 
left,  that  the  flag  of  Mr.  Bull  and  his  }^ounger  brother 
may  always  float  side  by  side  in  friendly  emulation. 
Novels  having  been  previously  compared  to  jellies — 
here  are  two  (one  perhaps  not  entirely  saccharine,  and 
flavored  with  an  amari  aliquid  very  distasteful  to  some 
palates) — two  novels  under  two  flags,  the  one  that  an- 
cient ensign  which  has  hung  before  the  well-known 
booth  of  Vanity  Fair ;  the  other  that  fresh  and  hand- 
some standard  which  has  lately  been  hoisted  on  Bar- 
chester  Towei*s.  Pray,  sir,  or  madam,  to  which  dish 
will  you  be  helped  ? 

So  have  I  seen  my  friends  Captain  Lang  and  Cap- 
tain Comstock  press  their  guests  to  partake  of  the  fare 
on  that  memorable  "first  day  out,"  when  there  is  no 
man,  I  think,  who  sits  down  but  asks  a  blessing  on 
his  voyage,  and  the  good  ship  dips  over  the  bar,  and 
bounds  away  into  the  blue  water. 


18  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 


ON  TWO  CHILDREN  IN  BLACK. 


Montaigne  and  Howel's  Letters  are  my  bedside 
books.  If  I  wake  at  night,  I  have  one  or  other  of 
them  to  prattle  me  to  sleep  again.  They  talk  about 
themselves  forever,  and  don't  weary  me.  I  like  to 
hear  them  tell  their  old  stories  over  and  over  again. 
I  read  them  in  the  dozy  hours,  and  only  half  remem- 
ber them.  I  am  informed  that  both  of  them  tell  coarse 
stories.  I  don't  heed  them.  It  was  the  custom  of 
their  time,  as  it  is  of  Highlanders  and  Hottentots,  to 
dispense  with  a  part  of  dress  which  we  all  wear  in 
cities.  But  people  can't  afford  to  be  shocked  either 
at  Cape  Town  or  at  Inverness  every  time  they  meet 
an  individual  who  wears  his  national  airy  raiment.  I 
never  knew  the  Arabian  Nights  was  an  improper  book 
until  I  happened  once  to  read  it  in  a  "  family  edition." 
Well,  qui  s'excuse.  .  .  .  "Who,  pray,  has  accused  me  as 
yet?  Here  am  I  smothering  dear  good  old  Mrs. 
Grundy's  objections  before  she  has  opened  her  mouth. 
I  love,  I  say,  and  scarce  ever  tire  of  hearing,  the  art- 
less prattle  of  those  two  dear  old  friends,  the  Peri- 
gourdin  gentleman  and  the  priggish  little  Clerk  of 
King  Charles's  Council.  Their  egotism  in  nowise  dis- 
gusts me.  I  hope  I  shall  always  like  to  hear  men,  in 
reason,  talk  about  themselves.  What  subject  does  a 
man  know  better?     If  I  stamp  on  a  friend's  corn,  his 


ON  TWO  CHILDREN   IN   BLACK.  19 

outcry  is  genuine — he  confounds  my  clumsiness  in 
the  accents  of  truth.  He  is  speaking  about  himself, 
and  expressing  his  emotion  of  grief  or  pain  in  a  man- 
ner perfectly  authentic  and  veracious.  I  have  a  story 
of  my  own,  of  a  wrong  done  to  me  by  somebody,  as 
far  back  as  the  year  1838 :  whenever  I  think  of  it, 
and  have  had  a  couple  glasses  of  wine,  I  can  not  help 
telling  it.  The  toe  is  stamped  upon ;  the  pain  is  just 
as  keen  as  ever ;  I  cry  out,  and  perhaps  utter  impre- 
catory language.  I  told  the  story  only  last  Wednes- 
day at  dinner : 

"Mr.  Koundabout,"  says  a  lady  sitting  by  me,  "how 
comes  it  that  in  your  books  there  is  a  certain  class  (it 
may  be  of  men,  or  it  may  be  of  women,  but  that  is  not 
the  question  in  point) — how  comes  it,  dear  sir,  there 
is  a  certain  class  of  persons  whom  you  always  attack 
in  your  writings,  and  savagely  rush  at,  goad,  poke, 
toss  up  in  the  air,  kick,  and  trample  on  ?" 

I  couldn't  help  myself.  I  knew  I  ought  not  to  do 
it.  I  told  her  the  whole  story  between  the  entrees 
and  the  roast.  The  wound  began  to  bleed  again. 
The  horrid  pang  was  there,  as  keen  and  as  fresh  as 
ever.  If  I  live  half  as  long  as  Tithonus,  that  crack 
across  my  heart  can  never  be  cured.  There  are 
wrongs  and  griefs  that  can't  be  mended.  It  is  all 
very  well  of  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  G\,  to  say  that  this 
spirit  is  unchristian,  and  that  we  ought  to  forgive  and 
forget,  and  so  forth.  How  can  I  forget  at  will  ?  How 
forgive?  I  can  forgive  the  occasional  waiter,  who 
broke  my  beautiful  old  decanter  at  that  very  dinner. 
I  am  not  going  to  do  him  any  injury.  But  all  the 
powers  on  earth  can't  make  that  claret-jug  whole. 


20  ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS. 

So,  you  see,  I  told  the  lady  the  inevitable  story.  I 
was  egotistical.  I  was  selfish,  no  doubt;  but  I  was 
natural,  and  was  telling  the  truth.  You  say  you  are 
angry  with  a  man  for  talking  about  himself.  It  is  be- 
cause you  yourself  are  selfish  that  that  other  person's 
self  does  not  interest  you.  Be  interested  by  other 
people  and  with  their  affairs.  Let  them  prattle  and 
talk  to  you,  as  I  do  my  dear  old  egotists  just  men- 
tioned. When  you  have  had  enough  of  them,  and 
sudden  hazes  come  over  your  eyes,  lay  down  the  vol- 
ume, pop  out  the  candle,  and  dormez  Men.  I  should 
like  to  write  a  nightcap  book — a  book  that  3~ou  can 
muse  over,  that  you  can  smile  over,  that  you  can  yawn 
over — a  book  of  which  you  can  say,  "Well,  this  man 
is  so  and  so,  and  so  and  so;  but  he  has  a  friendly 
heart  (although  some  wiseacres  have  painted  him  as 
black  as  Bogey),  and  you  may  trust  what  he  says." 
I  should  like  to  touch  you  sometimes  with  a  reminis- 
cence that  shall  waken  your  sympathy,  and  make  you 
say,  To  anchk  have  so  thought,  felt,  smiled,  suffered. 
Now,  how  is  this  to  be  done  except  by  egotism? 
Linea  recta  brevissima.  That  right  line  "I"  is  the 
very  shortest,  simplest,  straightforwardest  means  of 
communication  between  us,  and  stands  for  what  it  is 
worth,  and  no  more.  Sometimes  authors  say,  "  The 
present  writer  has  often  remarked ;"  or,  "  The  under- 
signed has  observed ;"  or,  "  Mr.  Boundabout  presents 
his  compliments  to  the  gentle  reader,  and  begs  to 
state,"  etc.;  but  "I"  is  better  and  straighter  than  all 
these  grimaces  of  modesty;  and  although  these  are 
Roundabout  Papers,  and  may  wander  who  knows 
whither,  I  shall  ask  leave  to  maintain  the  upright  and 


ON    TWO   CHILDREN   IN   BLACK.  21 

simple  perpendicular.  When  this  bundle  of  egotisms 
is  bound  up  together,  as  they  may  be  one  day,  if  no 
accident  prevents  this  tongue  from  wagging,  or  this 
ink  from  running,  they  will  bore  you  very  likely ;  so 
it  would  to  read  through  Howel's  Letters  from  begin- 
ning to  end,  or  to  eat  up  the  whole  of  a  ham ;  but  a 
slice  on  occasion  may  have  a  relish ;  a  dip  into  the 
volume  at  random,  and  so  on  for  a  page  or  two ;  and 
now  and  then  a  smile ;  and  presently  a  gape ;  and 
the  book  drops  out  of  your  hand ;  and  so,  bon  soir, 
and  pleasant  dreams  to  you.  I  have  frequently  seen 
men  at  clubs  asleep  over  their  humble  servant's  works, 
and  am  always  pleased.  Even  at  a  lecture  I  don't 
mind,  if  ihey  don't  snore.  Only  the  other  day,  when 
my  friend  A.  said,  "  You've  left  off  that  Roundabout 
business,  I  see;  very  glad  you  have,"  I  joined  in  the 
general  roar  of  laughter  at  the  table.  I  don't  care  a 
fig  whether  Archilochus  likes  the  papers  or  no.  You 
don't  like  partridge,  Archilochus,  or  porridge,  or  what 
not?  Try  some  other  dish.  I  am  not  going  to  force 
mine  down  your  throat,  or  quarrel  with  you  if  you 
refuse  it.  Once  in  America  a  clever  and  candid  wom- 
an said  to  me,  at  the  close  of  a  dinner,  during  which  I 
had  been  sitting  beside  her,  "  Mr.  Roundabout,  I  was 
told  I  should  not  like  you;  and  I  don't."  "Well, 
ma'am,"  says  I,  in  a  tone  of  the  most  unfeigned  sim- 
plicity, "  I  don't  care."  And  we  became  good  friends 
immediately,  and  esteemed  each  other  ever  after. 

So,  my  dear  Archilochus,  if  you  come  upon  this 
paper,  and  say  "  Fudge !"  and  pass  on  to  another,  I, 
for  one,  shall  not  be  in  the  least  mortified.  If  you 
say,  "What  does  he  mean  by  calling  this  paper  On 


22  ROUND  ABOUT  PAPERS. 

Two  Children  in  Black,  when  there's  nothing  about 
people  in  black  at  all,  unless  the  ladies  he  met  (and 
evidently  bored)  at  dinner  were  black  women  ?  What 
is  all  this  egotistical  pother?  A  plague  on  his  I's!" 
My  dear  fellow,  if  you  read  Montaigne's  Essays,  you 
must  own  that  he  might  call  almost  any  one  by  the 
name  of  any  other,  and  that  an  essay  on  the  Moon  or 
an  essay  on  Green  Cheese  would  be  as  appropriate  a 
title  as  one  of  his  on  Coaches,  on  the  Art  of  Discours- 
ing, or  Experience,  or  what  you  will.  Besides,  if  I 
have  a  subject  (and  I  have),  I  claim  to  approach  it  in 
a  roundabout  manner. 

You  remember  Balzac's  tale  of  the  Peau  de  Chagrin, 
and  how  every  time  the  possessor  used  it  for  the  ac- 
complishment of  some  wish  the  fairy  Peau  shrank  a 
little,  and  the  owner's  life  correspondingly  shortened? 
I  have  such  a  desire  to  be  well  with  my  public  that  I 
am  actually  giving  up  my  favorite  story.  I  am  kill- 
ing my  goose,  I  know  I  am.  I  can't  tell  my  story 
of  the  children  in  black  after  this — after  printing  it, 
and  sending  it  through  the  country.  When  they  are 
gone  to  the  printer's  these  little  things  become  public 
property.  I  take  their  hands.  I  bless  them.  I  say, 
"  Good-by,  my  little  dears."  I  am  quite  sorry  to  part 
with  them ;  but  the  fact  is,  I  have  told  all  my  friends 
about  them  already,  and  don't  dare  to  take  them  about 
with  me  any  more. 

Now  every  word  is  true  of  this  little  anecdote,  and 
I  submit  that  there  lies  in  it  a  most  curious  and  ex- 
citing little  mystery.  I  am  like  a  man  who  gives  you 
the  last  bottle  of  his  '25  claret.  It  is  the  pride  of  his 
cellar ;  he  knows  it,  and  he  has  a  right  to  praise  it. 


ON  TWO  CHILDREN  IN  BLACK.  23 

He  takes  up  the  bottle,  fashioned  so  slenderly — takes 
it  up  tenderly,  cants  it  with  care,  places  it  before  his 
friends,  declares  how  good  it  is,  with  honest  pride,  and 
wishes  he  had  a  hundred  dozen  bottles  more  of  the 
same  wine  in  his  cellar.  Si  quid  novisti,  etc.,  I  shall  be 
very  glad  to  hear  from  you.  I  protest  and  vow  I  am 
giving  you  the  best  I  have. 

Well,  who  those  little  boys  in  black  were,  I  shall 
never  probably  know  to  my  dying  day.  They  were 
very  pretty  little  men,  with  pale  faces,  and  large,  mel- 
ancholy eyes ;  and  they  had  beautiful  little  hands, 
and  little  boots,  and  the  finest  little  shirts,  and  black 
paletots  lined  with  the  richest  silk ;  and  they  had  pic- 
ture-books in  several  languages,  English,  and  French, 
and  German,  I  remember.  Two  more  aristocratic- 
looking  little  men  I  never  set  eyes  on.  They  were 
traveling  with  a  very  handsome,  pale  lady  in  mourn- 
ing, and  a  maid-servant  dressed  in  black  too ;  and  on 
the  lady's  face  there  was  the  deepest  grief.  The  little 
boys  clambered  and  played  about  the  carriage,  and 
she  sat  watching.  It  was  a  railway-carriage  from 
Frankfort  to  Heidelberg. 

I  saw  at  once  that  she  was  the  mother  of  those  chil- 
dren, and  going  to  part  from  them.  Perhaps  I  have 
tried  parting  with  my  own,  and  not  found  the  busi- 
ness very  pleasant.  Perhaps  I  recollect  driving  down 
(with  a  certain  trunk  and  carpet-bag  on  the  box)  with 
my  own  mother  to  the  end  of  the  avenue,  where  we 
waited  —  only  a  few  minutes  —  until  the  whirring 
wheels  of  that  "  Defiance"  coach  were  heard  rolling 
toward  us  as  certain  as  death.  Twang  goes  the  horn ; 
up  goes  the  trunk ;  down  come  the  steps.     Bah !  I  see 


24  ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS. 

the  autumn  evening ;  I  hear  the  wheels  now ;  I  smart 
the  cruel  smart  again ;  and,  boy  or  man,  have  never 
been  able  to  bear  the  sight  of  people  parting  from 
their  children. 

I  thought  these  little  men  might  be  going  to  school 
for  the  first  time  in  their  lives ;  and  mamma  might  be 
taking  them  to  the  doctor,  and  would  leave  them  with 
many  fond  charges,  and  little  wistful  secrets  of  love, 
bidding  the  elder  to  protect  his  younger  brother,  and 
the  younger  to  be  gentle,  and  to  remember  to  pray  to 
Grod  always  for  his  mother,  who  would  pray  for  her 
boy  too.  Oar  party  made  friends  with  these  young 
ones  during  the  little  journey ;  but  the  poor  lady  was 
too  sad  to  talk  except  to  the  boys  now  and  again,  and 
sat  in  her  corner  pale,  and  silently  looking  at  them. 

The  next  day  we  saw  the  lady  and  her  maid  driv- 
ing in  the  direction  of  the  railway  station  without  the 
boys.  The  parting  had  taken  place,  then.  That  night 
they  would  sleep  among  strangers.  The  little  beds  at 
home  were  vacant,  and  poor  mother  might  go  and 
look  at  them.  Well,  tears  flow,  and  friends  part,  and 
mothers  pray  every  night  all  over  the  world.  I  dare 
say  we  went  to  see  Heidelberg  Castle,  and  admired 
the  vast  shattered  walls,  and  quaint  gables ;  and  the 
Keckar  running  its  bright  course  through  that  charm- 
ing scene  of  peace  and  beauty ;  and  ate  our  dinner, 
and  drank  our  wine  with  relish.  The  poor  mother 
would  eat  but  little  Abendessen  that  night ;  and  as  for 
the  children — that  first  night  at  school — hard  bed, 
hard  words,  strange  boys  bullying,  and  laughing,  and 
jarring  you  with  their  hateful  merriment — as  for  the 
first  night  at  a  strange  school,  we  most  of  us  remem- 


ON  TWO   CHILDREN  IN  BLACK.  25 

ber  what  that  is.  And  the  first  is  not  the  worst,  my 
boys,  there's  the  rub.  But  each  man  has  his  share  of 
troubles,  and  I  suppose  you  must  have  yours. 

From  Heidelberg  we  went  to  Baden-Baden,  and,  I 
dare  say,  saw  Madame  de  Schlangenbad  and  Madame 
de  la  Cruchecassee,  and  Count  Punter,  and  honest  Cap- 
tain Blackball.  And  whom  should  we  see  in  the 
evening  but  our  two  little  boys,  walking  on  each  side 
of  a  fierce,  yellow-faced,  bearded  man  !  We  wanted 
to  renew  our  acquaintance  with  them,  and  they  were 
coming  forward  quite  pleased  to  greet  us.  But  the 
father  pulled  back  one  of  the  little  men  by  his  paletot, 
gave  a  grim  scowl,  and  walked  away.  I  can  see  the 
children  now  looking  rather  frightened  away  from  us 
and  up  into  the  father's  face,  or  the  cruel  uncle's — 
which  was  he?  I  think  he  was  the  father.  So  this 
was  the  end  of  them.  Not  school  as  I  at  first  had  im- 
agined. The  mother  was  gone,  who  had  given  them 
the  heaps  of  pretty  books,  and  the  pretty  studs  in  the 
shirts,  and  the  pretty  silken  clothes,  and  the  tender — 
tender  cares ;  and  they  were  handed  to  this  scowling 
practitioner  of  Trente  et  Quarante.  Ah !  this  is  worse 
than  school.  Poor  little  men !  poor  mother  sitting  by 
the  vacant  little  beds !  We  saw  the  children  once  or 
twice  after,  always  in  Scowler's  company,  but  we  did 
not  dare  to  give  each  other  any  marks  of  recognition. 

From  Baden  we  went  to  Basel,  and  thence  to  Lu- 
cerne, and  so  over  the  St.  Gothard  into  Italy.  From 
Milan  we  went  to  Venice ;  and  now  comes  the  singu- 
lar part  of  my  story.  In  Venice  there  is  a  little  court 
of  which  I  forget  the  name,  but  in  it  is  an  apothecary's 
shop,  whither  I  went  to  buy  some  remedy  for  the  bites 

B 


26  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

of  certain  animals  which  abound  in  Venice.  Crawling 
animals,  skipping  animals,  and  humming,  flying  ani- 
mals ;  all  three  will  have  at  you  at  once ;  and  one 
night  nearly  drove  me  into  a  strait-waistcoat.  Well, 
as  I  was  coming  out  of  the  apothecary's  with  the  bot- 
tle of  spirits  of  hartshorn  in  my  hand  (it  really  does 
do  the  bites  a  great  deal  of  good),  whom  should  I  light 
upon  but  one  of  my  little  Heidelberg-Baden  boys ! 

I  have  said  how  handsomely  they  were  dressed  as 
long  as  they  were  with  their  mother.  When  I  saw 
the  boy  at  Yenice,  who  perfectly  recognized  me,  his 
only  garb  was  a  wretched  yellow  cotton  gown.  His 
little  feet,  on  which  I  had  admired  the  little  shiny 
boots,  were  without  shoe  or  stocking.  He  looked  at  me, 
ran  to  an  old  hag  of  a  woman  who  seized  his  hand, 
and  with  her  he  disappeared  down  one  of  the  throng- 
ed lanes  of  the  city. 

From  Yenice  we  went  to  Trieste  (the  Yienna  rail- 
way at  that  time  was  only  opened  as  far  as  Lay  bach, 
and  the  magnificent  Semmering  Pass  was  not  quite 
completed).  At  a  station  between  Lay  bach  and  Graetz, 
one  of  my  companions  alighted  for  refreshment,  and 
came  back  to  the  carriage  saying, 

"  There's  that  horrible  man  from  Baden,  with  the 
two  little  boys." 

Of  course,  we  had  talked  about  the  appearance  of 
the  little  boy  at  Yenice,  and  his  strange  altered  garb. 
My  companion  said  they  were  pale,  wretched-looking, 
and  dressed  quite  shabbily. 

I  got  out  at  several  stations,  and  looked  at  all  the 
carriages.  I  could  not  see  my  little  men.  From  that 
day  to  this  I  have  never  set  eyes  on  them.     That  is 


ON  TWO  CHILDREN  IN  BLACK.  27 

Jill  my  story.  Who  were  they?  What  could  they 
be  ?  How  can  you  explain  that  mystery  of  the  moth- 
er giving  them  up ;  of  the  remarkable  splendor  and 
elegance  of  their  appearance  while  under  her  care ;  of 
their  barefooted  squalor  in  Venice  a  month  afterward ; 
of  their  shabby  habiliments  at  Laybach?  Had  the 
father  gambled  away  his  money  and  sold  their  clothes? 
How  came  they  to  have  passed  out  of  the  hands  of  a 
refined  lady  (as  she  evidently  was,  with  whom  I  first 
saw  them)  into  the  charge  of  quite  a  common  woman 
like  her  with  whom  I  saw  one  of  the  boys  at  Venice  ? 
Here  is  but  one  chapter  of  the  story.  Can  any  man 
write  the  next,  or  that  preceding  the  strange  one  on 
which  I  happened  to  light  ?  Who  knows :  the  mys- 
tery may  have  some  quite  simple  solution.  I  saw  two 
children,  attired  like  little  princes,  taken  from  their 
mother  and  consigned  to  other  care ;  and  a  fortnight 
afterward,  one  of  them  barefooted  and  like  a  beggar. 
Who  will  read  this  riddle  of  The  Two  Children  in 
Black? 


28 


ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 


ON    RIBBONS. 


The  uncle  of  the  present  Sir  Louis  N.  Bonaparte, 
K.Gr.,  etc.,  inaugurated  his  reign  as  Emperor  over  the 
neighboring  nation  by  establishing  an  Order,  to  which 
all  citizens  of  his  country,  military,  naval,  and  civil — 
all  men  most  distinguished  in  science,  letters,  arts,  and 


ON  KIBBONS.  29 

commerce — were  admitted.  The  emblem  of  the  Or- 
der was  but  a  piece  of  ribbon,  more  or  less  long  or 
broad,  with  a  toy  at  the  end  of  it.  The  Bourbons  had 
toys  and  ribbons  of  their  own,  blue,  black,  and  all-col- 
ored ;  and  on  their  return  to  dominion  such  good  old 
Tories  would  naturally  have  preferred  to  restore  their 
good  old  Orders  of  Saint  Louis,  Saint  Esprit,  and  Saint 
Michel,  but  France  had  taken  the  ribbon  of  the  Legion 
of  Honor  so  to  her  heart  that  no  Bourbon  sovereign 
dared  to  pluck  it  thence. 

In  England,  until  very  late  days,  we  have  been  ac- 
customed rather  to  pooh-pooh  national  Orders,  to  vote 
ribbons  and  crosses,  tinsel  gewgaws,  foolish  foreign  or- 
naments, and  so  forth.  It  is  known  how  the  Great 
Duke  (the  breast  of  whose  own  coat  was  plastered 
with  some  half  hundred  decorations)  was  averse  to  the 
wearing  of  ribbons,  medals,  clasps,  and  the  like,  by  his 
army.  We  have  all  of  us  read  how  uncommonly  dis- 
tinguished Lord  Castlereagh  looked  at  Vienna,  where 
he  was  the  only  gentleman  present  without  any  deco- 
ration whatever.  And  the  Great  Duke's  theory  was, 
that  clasps  and  ribbons,  stars  and  garters,  were  good 
and  proper  ornaments  for  himself,  for  the  chief  officers 
of  his  distinguished  army,  and  for  gentlemen  of  high 
birth,  who  might  naturally  claim  to  wear  a  band  of 
garter  blue  across  their  waistcoats ;  but  that  for  com- 
mon people  your  plain  coat,  without  stars  and  ribbons, 
was  the  most  sensible  wear. 

And  no  doubt  you  and  I  are  as  happy,  as  free,  as 
comfortable ;  we  can  walk  and  dine  as  well ;  we  can 
keep  the  winter's  cold  out  as  well,  without  a  star  on 
our  coats,  as  without  a  feather  in  our  hats.    How  often 


30  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

we  have  laughed  at  the  absurd  mania  of  the  Ameri- 
cans for  dubbing  their  senators,  members  of  Congress, 
and  States'  representatives,  Honorable !  We  have  a 
right  to  call  our  privy  councilors  Right  Honorable, 
our  lords'  sons  Honorable,  and  so  forth ;  but  for  a  na- 
tion as  numerous,  well  educated,  strong,  rich,  civilized, 
free  as  our  own,  to  dare  to  give  its  distinguished  citi- 
zens titles  of  honor — monstrous  assumption  of  low- 
bred arrogance  and  parverme  vanity !  Our  titles  are 
respectable,  but  theirs  absurd.  Mr.  Jones,  of  London, 
a  chancellor's  son,  and  a  tailor's  grandson,  is  justly 
honorable,  and  entitled  to  be  Lord  Jones  at  his  noble 
father's  decease;  but  Mr.  Brown,  the  senator  from 
New  York,  is  a  silly  upstart  for  tacking  Honorable  to 
his  name,  and  our  sturdy  British  good  sense  laughs  at 
him.  Who  has  not  laughed  (I  have  myself)  at  Hon- 
orable Nahum  Dodge,  Honorable  Zeno  Scudder,  Hon- 
orable Hiram  Boake,  and  the  rest?  A  score  of  such 
queer  names  and  titles  I  have  smiled  at  in  America. 
And,  mutato  nomine  t  I  meet  a  born  idiot,  who  is  a 
peer  and  born  legislator.  This  driveling  noodle  and 
his  descendants  through  life  are  your  natural  superi- 
ors and  mine — your  and  my  children's  superiors.  I 
read  of  an  alderman  kneeling  and  knighted  at  court ; 
I  see  a  gold-stick  waddling  backward  before  majest}^ 
in  a  procession,  and  if  we  laugh,  don't  you  suppose 
the  Americans  laugh  too  ? 

Yes,  stars,  garters,  orders,  knighthoods,  and  the  like, 
are  folly.  Yes,  Bobus,  citizen  and  soap-boiler,  is  a 
good  man,  and  no  one  laughs  at  him  or  good  Mrs. 
Bobus,  as  they  have  their  dinner  at  one  o'clock.  But 
who  will  not  jeer  at  Sir  Thomas  on  a  melting  day, 


ON  RIBBONS.  31 

and  Lady  Bobus,  at  Margate,  eating  shrimps  in  a  don- 
key-chaise ?  Yes,  knighthood  is  absurd ;  and  chival- 
ry an  idiotic  superstition ;  and  Sir  Walter  Manny  was 
a  zany ;  and  Nelson,  with  his  flaming  stars  and  cor- 
dons, splendent  upon  a  day  of  battle,  was  a  madman ; 
and  Murat,  with  his  crosses  and  orders,  at  the  head  of 
his  squadrons  charging  victorious,  was  only  a  crazy 
mountebank,  who  had  been  a  tavern- waiter,  and  was 
puffed  up  with  absurd  vanity  about  his  dress  and  legs. 
And  the  men  of  the  French  line  at  Fontenoy,  who 
told  Messieurs  de  la  Garde  to  fire  first,  were  smirking 
French  dancing-masters  ;  and  the  Black  Prince,  wait- 
ing upon  his  royal  prisoner,  was  acting  an  inane  mas- 
querade ;  and  Chivalry  is  naught ;  and  Honor  is  hum- 
bug; and  Gentlemanhood  is  an  extinct  folly;  and 
Ambition  is  madness;  and  desire  of  distinction  is 
criminal  vanity ;  and  glory  is  bosh ;  and  fair  fame  is 
idleness ;  and  nothing  is  true  but  two  and  two ;  and 
the  color  of  all  the  world  is  drab ;  and  all  men  are 
equal ;  and  one  man  is  as  tall  as  another ;  and  one 
man  is  as  good  as  another — and  a  great  dale  betther, 
as  the  Irish  philosopher  said. 

Is  this  so  ?  Titles  and  badges  of  honor  are  vanity ; 
and  in  the  American  Kevolution  you  have  his  Excel- 
lency General  Washington  sending  back,  and  with 
proper  spirit  sending  back,  a  letter  in  which  he  is  not 
addressed  as  Excellency  and  General.  Titles  are  abol- 
ished ;  and  the  American  republic  swarms  with  men 
claiming  and  bearing  them.  You  have  the  French 
soldier  cheered  and  happy  in  his  dying  agony,  and 
kissing  with  frantic  joy  the  chiefs  hand  who  lays  the 
little  cross  on  the  bleeding  bosom.     At  home  you 


32  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

have  the  dukes  and  earls  jobbing  and  intriguing  for 
the  Garter;  the  military  knights  grumbling  at  the 
civil  knights  of  the  Bath ;  the  little  ribbon  eager  for 
the  collar;  the  soldiers  and  seamen  from  India  and 
the  Crimea  marching  in  procession  before  the  queen, 
and  receiving  from  her  hands  the  cross  bearing  her 
royal  name.  And,  remember,  there  are  not  only  the 
cross  wearers,  but  all  the  fathers  and  friends ;  all  the 
women  who  have  prayed  for  their  absent  heroes; 
Harry's  wife,  and  Tom's  mother,  and  Jack's  daughter, 
and  Frank's  sweet-heart,  each  of  whom  wears  in  her 
heart  of  hearts  afterward  the  badge  which  son,  father, 
lover,  has  won  by  his  merit ;  each  of  whom  is  made 
happy  and  proud,  and  is  bound  to  the  country  by  that 
little  bit  of  ribbon. 

I  have  heard,  in  a  lecture  about  George  the  Third, 
that,  at  his  accession,  the  king  had  a  mind  to  establish 
an  order  for  literary  men.  It  was  to  have  been  called 
the  Order  of  Minerva — I  suppose  with  an  Owl  for  a 
badge.  The  knights  were  to  have  worn  a  star  of  six- 
teen points,  and  a  yellow  ribbon  ;  and  good  old  Sam- 
uel Johnson  was  talked  of  as  President,  or  Grand 
Cross,  or  Grand  Owl,  of  the  society.  ISTow  about  such 
an  order  as  this  there  certainly  may  be  doubts.  Con- 
sider the  claimants,  the  difficulty  of  settling  their 
claims,  the  rows  and  squabbles  among  the  candidates, 
and  the  subsequent  decision  of  posterity !  Dr.  Beat- 
tie  would  have  ranked  as  first  poet,  and  twenty  years 
after  the  sublime  Mr.  Hayley  would,  no  doubt,  have 
claimed  the  Grand  Cross.  Mr.  Gibbon  would  not 
have  been  eligible  on  account  of  his  dangerous  free- 
thinking  opinions ;  and  her  sex,  as  well  as  her  re- 


ON  RIBBONS.  33 

publican  sentiments,  might  have  interfered  with  the 
knighthood  of  the  immortal  Mrs.  Catharine  Macaulay. 
How  Goldsmith  would  have  paraded  the  ribbon  at 
Madame  Cornelys's,  or  the  Academy  dinner!  How 
Peter  Pindar  would  have  railed  at  it!  Fifty  years 
later,  the  noble  Scott  would  have  worn  the  Grand 
Cross  and  deserved  it;  but  Gifford  would  have  had 
it;  and  Byron,  and  Shelley,  and  Hazlitt,  and  Hunt 
would  have  been  without  it ;  and  had  Keats  been  pro- 
posed as  officer,  how  the  Tory  prints  would  have 
yelled  with  rage  and  scorn !  Had  the  star  of  Minerva 
lasted  to  our  present  time — but  I  pause,  not  because 
the  idea  is  dazzling,  but  too  awful.  Fancy  the  claim- 
ants, and  the  row  about  their  precedence !  Which 
philosopher  shall  have  the  grand  cordon  ?  which  the 
collar  ?  which  the  little  scrap  no  bigger  than  a  butter- 
cup ?  Of  the  historians — A,  say — and  C,  and  F,  and 
G,  and  S,  and  T  —  which  shall  be  Companion  and 
which  Grand  Owl?  Of  the  poets,  who  wears,  or 
claims,  the  largest  and  brightest  star  ?  Of  the  novel- 
ists, there  is  A,  and  B,  and  C  D ;  and  E  (star  of  first 
magnitude,  newly  discovered),  and  F  (a  magazine  of 
wit),  and  fair  G,  and  H,  and  I,  and  brave  old  J,  and 
charming  K,  and  L,  and  M,  and  N,  and  O  (fair  twink- 
lers),  and  I  am  puzzled  between  three  P's — Peacock, 
Miss  Pardoe,  and  Paul  Pry — and  Queechy,  and  E,  and 
S,  and  T,  mere  et  fils,  and  very  likely  U,  oh  gentle 
reader,  for  who  has  not  written  his  novel  nowadays  ? 
who  has  not  a  claim  to  the  star  and  straw-colored  rib- 
bon? and  who  shall  have  the  biggest  and  largest? 
Fancy  the  struggle  !  Fancy  the  squabble !  Fancy 
the  distribution  of  prizes ! 

B2 


34  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

Who  shall  decide  on  them  ?  Shall  it  be  the  sover- 
eign ?  shall-  it  be  the  minister  for  the  time  being  ?  and 
has  Lord  Palmerston  made  a  deep  study  of  novels  ? 
In  this  matter  the  late  ministry,  to  be  sure,  was  better 
qualified ;  but  even  then,  grumblers  who  had  not  got 
their  canary  cordons  would  have  hinted  at  professional 
jealousies  entering  the  cabinet;  and,  the  ribbons  be- 
ing awarded,  Jack  would  have  scowled  at  his  because 
Dick  had  a  broader  one ;  Ned  been  indignant  because 
Bob's  was  as  large ;  Tom  would  have  thrust  his  into 
the  drawer,  and  scorned  to  wear  it  at  all.  No,  no ;  the 
so-called  literary  world  was  well  rid  of  Minerva  and 
her  yellow  ribbon.  The  great  poets  would  have  been 
indifferent,  the  little  poets  jealous,  the  funny  men  fu- 
rious, the  philosophers  satirical,  the  historians  super- 
cilious, and,  finally,  the  jobs  without  end.  Say,  inge- 
nuity and  cleverness  are  to  be  rewarded  by  state  to- 
kens and  prizes — and  take  for  granted  the  Order  of 
Minerva  is  established — who  shall  have  it  ?  A  great 
philosopher?  no  doubt,  we  cordially  salute  him  G.  C.  M. 
A  great  historian  ?  G.  C.  M.  of  course.  A  great  en- 
gineer ?  G.  C.  M.  A  great  poet  ?  received  with  ac- 
clamation G.  C.  M.  A  great  painter  ?  oh !  certainly, 
G.  C.  M.  If  a  great  painter,  why  not  a  great  novelist? 
Well,  pass,  great  novelist,  G.  C.  M.  But  if  a  poetic, 
a  pictorial,  a  story -telling,  or  music-composing  artist, 
why  not  a  singing  artist  ?  Why  not  a  basso-profondo  ? 
Why  not  a  primo  tenore?  And  if  a  singer,  why 
should  not  a  ballet-dancer  come  bounding  on  the  stage 
with  his  cordon,  and  cut  capers  to  the  music  of  a  row 
of  decorated  fiddlers?  A  chemist  puts  in  his  claim 
for  having  invented  a  new  color ;  an  apothecary  for  a 


ON  KIBBONS.  35 

new  pill ;  the  cook  for  a  new  sauce ;  the  tailor  for  a 
new  cut  of  trowsers.  We  have  brought  the  star  of 
Minerva  down  from  the  breast  to  the  pantaloons. 
Stars  and  garters !  can  we  go  any  farther ;  or  shall  we 
give  the  shoemaker  the  yellow  ribbon  of  the  order  for 
his  shoe-tie  ? 

When  I  began  this  present  Eoundabout  excursion, 
I  think  I  had  not  quite  made  up  my  mind  whether  we 
would  have  an  Order  of  all  the  Talents  or  not ;  per- 
haps I  rather  had  a  hankering  for  a  rich  ribbon  and 
gorgeous  star,  in  which  my  family  might  like  to  see 
me  at  parties  in  my  best  waistcoat.  But  then  the  door 
opens,  and  there  come  in,  and  by  the  same  right  too, 
Sir  Alexis  Soyer !  Sir  Alessandro  Tamburini !  Sir 
Agostino  Velluti!  Sir  Antonio  Paganini  (violinist)  1 
Sir  Sandy  McGufTog  (piper  to  the  most  noble  the  Mar- 
quis of  Farintosh) !  Sir  Alcide  Flicflac  (premier  dan- 
seur  of  H.  M.  Theatre) !  Sir  Harley  Quin  and  Sir  Jo- 
seph Grimaldi  (from  Covent  Garden) !  They  have  all 
the  yellow  ribbon.  They  are  all  honorable,  and  clev- 
er, and  distinguished  artists.  Let  us  elbow  through 
the  rooms,  make  a  bow  to  the  lady  of  the  house,  give 
a  nod  to  Sir  George  Thrum,  who  is  leading  the  or- 
chestra, and  go  and  get  some  Champagne  and  Seltzer- 
water  from  Sir  Richard  Gunter,  who  is  presiding  at 
the  buffet.  A  national  decoration  might  be  well  and 
good ;  a  token  awarded  by  the  country  to  all  its  bene- 
merentibus;  but  most  gentlemen  with  Minerva  stars 
would,  I  think,  be  inclined  to  wear  very  wide  breast- 
collars  to  their  coats.  Suppose  yourself,  brother  pen- 
man, decorated  with  this  ribbon,  and  looking  in  the 
glass,  would  you  not  laugh?  Would  not  wife  and 
daughters  laugh  at  that  canary -colored  emblem  ? 


36  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

But  suppose  a  man,  old  or  young,  of  figure  ever  so 
stout,  thin,  stumpy,  homely,  indulging  in  looking-glass 
reflections  with  that  hideous  ribbon  and  cross  called 
V.  C.  on  his  coat,  would  he  not  be  proud?  and  his 
family,  would  not  they  be  prouder  ?  For  your  noble- 
man there  is  the  famous  old  blue  garter  and  star,  and 
welcome.  If  I  were  a  marquis — if  I  had  thirty — forty 
thousand  a  year  (settle  the  sum,  my  dear  Alnaschar, 
according  to  your  liking),  I  should  consider  myself 
entitled  to  my  seat  in  Parliament  and  to  my  Garter. 
The  Garter  belongs  to  the  Ornamental  Classes.  Have 
you  seen  the  new  magnificent  Pavo  Spicifer  at  the 
Zoological  Gardens,  and  do  you  grudge  him  his  jew- 
eled coronet  and  the  azure  splendor  of  his  waistcoat  ? 
I  like  my  lord  mayor  to  have  a  gilt  coach ;  my  mag- 
nificent monarch  to  be  surrounded  by  magnificent  no- 
bles; I  hurrah  respectfully  when  they  pass  in  pro- 
cession. It  is  good  for  Mr.  Briefless  (50  Pump  Court, 
fourth  floor)  that  there  should  be  a  lord  chancellor, 
with  a  gold  robe  and  fifteen  thousand  a  year.  It  is 
good  for  a  poor  curate  that  there  should  be  splendid 
bishops  at  Fulham  and  Lambeth :  their  lordships  were 
poor  curates  once,  and  have  won,  so  to  speak,  their 
ribbon.  Is  a  man  who  puts  into  a  lottery  to  be  sulky 
because  he  does  not  win  the  twenty  thousand  pounds 
prize  ?  Am  I  to  fall  into  a  rage,  and  bully  my  fam- 
ily when  I  come  home,  after  going  to  see  Chatsworth 
or  Windsor,  because  we  have  only  two  little  drawing- 
rooms  ?  Welcome  to  your  Garter,  my  lord,  and  shame 
upon  him  qui  mdl  y  pense  I 

So  I  arrive  in  my  roundabout  way  near  the  point  to- 
ward which  I  have  been  trotting  ever  since  we  set  out. 


ON  RIBBONS.  37 

In  a  voyage  to  America  some  nine  years  since,  on 
the  seventh,  or  eighth  day  out  from  Liverpool,  Captain 

L came  to  dinner  at  eight  bells  as  usual,  talked  a 

little  to  the  persons  right  and  left  of  him,  and  helped 
the  soup  with  his  accustomed  politeness.  Then  he 
went  on  deck,  and  was  back  in  a  minute,  and  operated 
on  the  fish,  looking  rather  grave  the  while. 

Then  he  went  on  deck  again,  and  this  time  was  ab- 
sent, it  may  be,  three  or  five  minutes,  during  which 
the  fish  disappeared,  and  the  entrees  arrived,  and  the 
roast  beef.  Say  ten  minutes  passed — I  can't  tell  after 
nine  years. 

Then  L came  down  with  a  pleased  and  happy 

countenance  this  time,  and  began  carving  the  sirloin : 
"We  have  seen  the  light,"  he  said.  "  Madam,  may  I 
help  you  to  a  little  gravy,  or  a  little  horseradish  ?"  or 
what-not  ? 

I  forget  the  name  of  the  light ;  nor  does  it  matter. 
It  was  a  point  of  Newfoundland  for  which  he  was  on 
the  look-out,  and  so  well  did  the  Canada  know  where 
she  was,  that,  between  soup  and  beef,  the  captain  had 
sighted  the  headland  by  which  his  course  was  lying. 

And  so  through  storm  and  darkness,  through  fog 
and  midnight,  the  ship  had  pursued  her  steady  way 
over  the  pathless  ocean  and  roaring  seas,  so  surely 
that  the  officers  who  sailed  her  knew  her  place  with- 
in a  minute  or  two,  and  guided  us  with  a  wonderful 
providence  safe  on  our  way.  Since  the  noble  Cunard 
Company  has  run  its  ships,  but  one  accident,  and  that 
through  the  error  of  a  pilot,  has  happened  on  the  line. 

By  this  little  incident  (hourly  of  course  repeated, 
and  trivial  to  all  sea-going  people)  I  own  I  was  im- 


38  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

mensely  moved,  and  never  can  think  of  it  but  with  a 
heart  full  of  thanks  and  awe.  We  trust  our  lives  to 
these  seamen,  and  how  nobly  they  fulfill  their  trust ! 
They  are,  under  heaven,  as  a  providence  for  us. 
While  we  sleep,  their  untiring  watchfulness  keeps 
guard  over  us.  All  night  through  that  bell  sounds 
at  its  season,  and  tells  how  our  sentinels  defend  us. 
It  rang  when  the  Amazon  was  on  fire,  and  chimed  its 
heroic  signal  of  duty,  and  courage,  and  honor.  Think 
of  the  dangers  these  seamen  undergo  for  us;  the  hour- 
ly peril  and  watch ;  the  familiar  storm ;  the  dreadful 
iceberg;  the  long  winter  nights  when  the  decks  are 
as  glass,  and  the  sailor  has  to  climb  through  icicles  to 
bend  the  stiff  sail  on  the  yard.  Think  of  their  cour- 
age and  their  kindnesses  in  cold,  in  tempest,  in  hun- 
ger, in  wreck !  u  The  women  and  children  to  the 
boats,"  says  the  captain  of  the  Birkenhead,  and,  with 
the  troops  formed  on  the  deck,  and  the  crew  obedient 
to  the  word  of  glorious  command,  the  immortal  ship 
goes  down.     Eead  the  story  of  the  Sarah  Sands  : 

SARAH  SANDS. 

The  screw  steam-ship  Sarah  Sands,  1330  registered  tons,  was  char- 
tered by  the  East  India  Company  in  the  autumn  of  1858  for  the  con- 
veyance of  troops  to  India.  She  was  commanded  by  John  Squire 
Castle.  She  took  out  a  part  of  the  54th  Regiment,  upward  of  350 
persons,  besides  the  wives  and  children  of  some  of  the  men,  and  the 
families  of  some  of  the  officers.  All  went  well  till  the  11th  of  No- 
vember, when  the  ship  had  reached  lat.  14  S.,  long.  56  E.,  upward  of 
400  miles  from  the  Mauritius. 

Between  three  and  four  P.M.  on  that  day  a  very  strong  smell  of 
fire  was  perceived  arising  from  the  after-deck,  and  upon  going  below 
into  the  hold,  Captain  Castle  found  it  to  be  on  fire,  and  immense  vol- 
umes of  smoke  arising  from  it.     Endeavors  were  made  to  reach  the 


ON  KIBBONS.  39 

seat  of  the  fire,  but  in  vain ;  the  smoke  and  heat  were  too  much  for 
the  men.  There  was,  however,  no  confusion.  Every  order  was  obey- 
ed with  the  same  coolness  and  courage  with  which  it  was  given.  The 
engine  was  immediately  stopped.  All  sail  was  taken  in,  and  the  ship 
brought  to  the  wind,  so  as  to  drive  the  smoke  and  fire,  which  was  in 
the  after-part  of  the  ship,  astern.  Others  were,  at  the  same  time,  get- 
ting fire-hoses  fitted  and  passed  to  the  scene  of  the  fire.  The  fire, 
however,  continued  to  increase,  and  attention  was  directed  to  the  am- 
munition contained  in  the  powder  magazines,  which  were  situated 
one  on  each  side  the  ship  immediately  above  the  fire.  The  starboard 
magazine  was  soon  cleared.  But  by  this  time  the  whole  of  the  after- 
part  of  the  ship  was  so  much  enveloped  in  smoke  that  it  was  scarcely 
possible  to  stand,  and  great  fears  were  entertained  on  account  of  the 
port  magazine.  Volunteers  were  called  for,  and  came  immediately, 
and,  under  the  guidance  of  Lieutenant  Hughes,  attempted  to  clear 
the  port  magazine,  which  they  succeeded  in  doing,  with  the  excep- 
tion, as  was  supposed,  of  one  or  two  barrels.  It  was  most  dangerous 
work.  The  men  became  overpowered  with  the  smoke  and  heat,  and 
fell;  and  several,  while  thus  engaged,  were  dragged  up  by  ropes, 
senseless. 

The  flames  soon  burst  up  through  the  deck,  and,  running  rapidly 
along  the  various  cabins,  set  the  greater  part  on  fire. 

In  the  mean  time  Captain  Castle  took  steps  for  lowering  the  boats. 
There  was  a  heavy  gale  at  the  time,  but  they  were  launched  without 
the  least  accident.  The  soldiers  were  mustered  on  deck ;  there  was 
no  rush  to  the  boats ;  and  the  men  obeyed  the  word  of  command  as 
if  on  parade.  The  men  were  informed  that  Captain  Castle  did  not 
despair  of  saving  the  ship,  but  that  they  must  be  prepared  to  leave 
her  if  necessary.  The  women  and  children  were  lowered  into  the 
port  life-boat,  under  the  charge  of  Mr.  Very,  third  officer,  who  had 
orders  to  keep  clear  of  the  ship  until  recalled. 

Captain  Castle  then  commenced  constructing  rafts  of  spare  spars. 
In  a  short  time  three  were  put  together,  which  would  have  been  ca- 
pable of  saving  a  great  number  of  those  on  board.  Two  were  launched 
overboard,  and  safely  moored  alongside,  and  then  a  third  was  left 
across  the  deck  forward,  ready  to  be  launched. 

In  the  mean  time  the  fire  had  made  great  progress.  The  whole 
of  the  cabins  were  one  body  of  fire,  and  at  about  8  30  P.  M.  flames 
burst  through  the  upper  deck,  and  shortly  after  the  mizzen  rigging 
caught  fire.     Fears  were  entertained  of  the  ship  paying  off,  in  which 


40  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

case  the  flames  would  have  been  swept  forward  by  the  wind ;  but  for- 
tunately the  after-braces  were  burnt  through,  and  the  main  yard 
swung  round,  which  kept  the  ship's  head  to  wind.  About  nine  P.M. 
a  fearful  explosion  took  place  in  the  port  magazine,  arising,  no  doubt, 
from  the  one  or  two  barrels  of  powder  which  it  had  been  impossible 
to  remove.  By  this  time  the  ship  was  one  body  of  flame,  from  the 
stern  to  the  main  rigging,  and  thinking  it  scarcely  possible  to  save 
her,  Captain  Castle  called  Major  Brett  (then  in  command  of  the 
troops,  for  the  colonel  was  in  one  of  the  boats)  forward,  and,  telling 
him  that  he  feared  the  ship  was  lost,  requested  him  to  endeavor  to 
keep  order  among  the  troops  till  the  last,  but,  at  the  same  time,  to  use 
every  exertion  to  check  the  fire.  Providentially,  the  iron  bulkhead 
in  the  after-part  of  the  ship  withstood  the  action  of  the  flames,  and 
here  all  efforts  were  concentrated  to  keep  it  cool. 

"No  person,"  says  the  captain,  "  can  describe  the  manner  in  which 
the  men  worked  to  keep  the  fire  back  ;  one  party  were  below,  keeping 
the  bulkhead  cool,  and  when  several  were  dragged  up  senseless,  fresh 
volunteers  took  their  places,  who  were,  however,  soon  in  the  same 
state.  At  about  10  P.M.  the  main  topsail  yard  took  fire.  Mr.  Welch, 
one  quarter-master,  and  four  or  five  soldiers,  went  aloft  with  wet 
blankets,  and  succeeded  in  extinguishing  it,  but  not  until  the  yard 
and  mast  were  nearly  burnt  through.  The  work  of  fighting  the  fire 
below  continued  for  hours,  and  about  midnight  it  appeared  that  some 
impression  was  made ;  and  after  that  the  men  drove  it  back,  inch  by 
inch,  until  daylight,  when  they  had  completely  got  it  under.  The 
ship  was  now  in  a  frightful  plight.  The  after-part  was  literally  burnt 
out — merely  the  shell  remaining — the  port  quarter  blown  out  by  the 
explosion  ;  fifteen  feet  of  water  in  the  hold." 

The  gale  still  prevailed,  and  the  ship  was  rolling  and  pitching  in  a 
heavy  sea,  and  taking  in  large  quantities  of  water  abaft ;  the  tanks, 
too,  were  rolling  from  side  to  side  in  the  hold. 

As  soon  as  the  smoke  was  partially  cleared  away,  Captain  Castle 
got  spare  sails  and  blankets  aft  to  stop  the  leak,  passing  two  hawsers 
round  the  stern,  and  setting  them  up.  The  troops  were  employed 
baling  and  pumping.     This  continued  during  the  whole  morning. 

In  the  course  of  the  day  the  ladies  joined  the  ship.  The  boats 
were  ordered  alongside,  but  they  found  the  sea  too  heavy  to  remain 
there.  The  gig  had  been  abandoned  during  the  night,  and  the  crew, 
under  Mr.  Wood,  fourth  officer,  had  got  into  another  of  the  boats. 
The  troops  were  employed  the  remainder  of  the  day  baling  and 


6*1 

09     PS 


*  3 


ON   RIBBONS.  43 

pumping,  and  the  crew  securing  the  stern.  All  hands  were  employ- 
ed during  the  following  night  baling  and  pumping,  the  boats  being 
moored  alongside,  where  they  received  some  damage.  At  daylight 
on  the  13th  the  crew  were  employed  hoisting  the  boats,  the  troops 
were  working  manfully  baling  and  pumping.  Latitude  at  noon,  13 
deg.  12  min.  south.  At  five  P.M.  the  foresail  and  foretopsail  were 
set,  the  rafts  were  cut  away,  and  the  ship  bore  for  the  Mauritius.  On 
Thursday,  the  19th,  she  sighted  the  island  of  Rodrigues,  and  arrived 
at  Mauritius  on  Mondav,  the  23d. 


The  Nile  and  Trafalgar  are  not  more  glorious  to  our 
country,  are  not  greater  victories  than  these  won  by 
our  merchant  seamen.  And  if  you  look  in  the  cap- 
tains' reports  of  any  maritime  register,  you  will  see 
similar  acts  recorded  every  day.  I  have  such  a  vol- 
ume for  last  year  now  lying  before  me.  In  the  sec- 
ond number,  as  I  open  it  at  hazard,  Captain  Eoberts, 
master  of  the  ship  Empire,  from  Shields  to  London, 
reports  how,  on  the  14th  ult.  (the  14th  of  December, 
1859),  he,  "  being  off  Whitby,  discovered  the  ship  to 
be  on  fire  between  the  main  hold  and  boilers :  got  the 
hose  from  the  engine  laid  on,  and  succeeded  in  sub- 
duing the  fire ;  bnt  only  apparently  ;  for  at  seven  the 
next  morning,  the  Dudgeon  bearing  S.S.E.  seven  miles' 
distance,  the  fire  again  broke  out,  causing  the  ship  to 
be  enveloped  in  flames  on  both  sides  of  midships ;  got 
the  hose  again  into  play,  and  all  hands  to  work  with 
buckets  to  combat  with  the  fire.  Did  not  succeed  in 
stopping  it  till  four  P.M.,  to  effect  which  were  obliged 
to  cut  away  the  deck  and  top  sides,  and  throw  over- 
board part  of  the  cargo.  The  vessel  was  very  much 
damaged  and  leaky :  determined  to  make  for  the 
Humber.  Ship  was  run  on  shore,  on  the  mud,  near 
Grimsby  Harbor,  with  five  feet  of  water  in  her  hold. 


44  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

The  donkey  engine  broke  down.  The  water  in- 
creased so  fast  as  to  put  out  the  furnace  fires  and  ren- 
der the  ship  almost  unmanageable.  On  the  tide  flow- 
ing, a  tug  towed  the  ship  off  the  mud,  and  got  her  into 
Grimsby  to  repair." 

On  the  2d  of  November,  Captain  Strickland,  of  the 
Purchase  brigantine,  from  Liverpool  to  Yarmouth,  U. 
S.,  "  encountered  heavy  gales  from  W.  N.  W.  to  W.  S. 
W.,  in  lat.  43°  N.,  long  34°  W.,  in  which  we  lost  jib, 
foretopmast,  staysail,  topsail,  and  carried  away  the 
foretopmast  stays,  bobstays  and  bowsprit,  headsails, 
cut-water  and  stern,  also  started  the  wood  ends,  which 
caused  the  vessel  to  leak.  Put  her  before  the  wind 
and  sea,  and  hove  about  twenty-five  tons  of  cargo 
overboard  to  lighten  the  ship  forward.  Slung  myself 
in  a  bowline,  and  by  means  of  thrusting  2^-inch  rope 
in  the  opening,  contrived  to  stop  a  great  portion  of 
the  leak. 

"December  16th.  The  crew,  continuing  night  and 
day  at  the  pumps,  could  not  keep  the  ship  free; 
deemed  it  prudent,  for  the  benefit  of  those  concerned, 
to  bear  up  for  the  nearest  port.  On  arriving  in  lat. 
48°  45/  R,  long.  23°  W.,  observed  a  vessel  with  a  sig- 
nal of  distress  flying.  Made  toward  her,  when  she 
proved  to  be  the  bark  Carleton,  water-logged.  The 
captain  and  crew  asked  to  be  taken  off.  Hove  to, 
and  received  them  on  board,  consisting  of  thirteen 
men  ;  and  their  ship  was  abandoned.  We  then  pro- 
ceeded on  our  course,  the  crew  of  the  abandoned  ves- 
sel assisting  all  they  could  to  keep  my  ship  afloat. 
We  arrived  at  Cork  Harbor  on  the  27th  ult." 

Captain  Coulson,  master  of  the  brig  Othello,  reports 


ON  RIBBONS.  45 

that  his  brig  foundered  off  Portland  December  27 ; 
encountering  a  strong  gale,  and  shipping  two  heavy 
seas  in  succession,  which  hove  the  ship  on  her  beam- 
ends.  "  Observing  no  chance  of  saving  the  ship,  took 
to  the  long-boat,  and  within  ten  minutes  of  leaving 
her  saw  the  brig  founder.  "We  were  picked  up  the 
same  morning  by  the  French  ship  Commerce  de  Paris, 
Captain  Tombarel." 

Here,  in  a  single  column  of  a  newspaper,  what 
strange,  touching  pictures  do  we  find  of  seamen's 
dangers,  vicissitudes,  gallantry,  generosity!  The  ship 
on  fire — the  captain  in  the  gale  slinging  himself  in  a 
bowline  to  stop  the  leak — the  Frenchman  in  the  hour 
of  danger  coming  to  his  British  comrade's  rescue — 
the  brigantine,  almost  a  wreck,  working  up  to  the 
bark  with  the  signal  of  distress  flying,  and  taking  off 
her  crew  of  thirteen  men :  "  We  then  proceeded  on 
our  course,  the  crew  of  the  abandoned  vessel  assisting  all 
they  could  to  keep  my  ship  afloat."  What  noble,  sim- 
ple words!  What  courage,  devotedness,  brotherly 
love!  Do  they  not  cause  the  heart  to  beat  and  the 
eyes  to  fill  ? 

This  is  what  seamen  do  daily,  and  for  one  another. 
One  lights  occasionally  upon  different  stories.  It  hap- 
pened, not  very  long  since,  that  the  passengers  by  one 
of  the  great  ocean  steamers  were  wrecked,  and,  after 
undergoing  the  most  severe  hardships,  were  left,  des- 
titute and  helpless,  at  a  miserable  coaling  port.  Among 
them  were  old  men,  ladies,  and  children.  When  the 
next  steamer  arrived,  the  passengers  by  that  steamer 
took  alarm  at  the  haggard  and  miserable  appearance 
of  their  unfortunate  predecessors,  and  actually  remon- 


46  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

strated  with  their  own  captain,  urging  him  not  to  take  the 
poor  creatures  on  board.  There  was  every  excuse,  of 
course.  The  last-arrived  steamer  was  already  dan- 
gerously full ;  the  cabins  were  crowded ;  there  were 
sick  and  delicate  people  on  board — sick  and  delicate 
people  who  had  paid  a  large  price  to  the  company  for 
room,  food,  comfort,  already  not  too  sufficient.  If 
fourteen  of  us  are  in  an  omnibus,  will  we  see  three  or 
four  women  outside  and  say,  "  Come  in,  because  this 
is  the  last  'bus,  and  it  rains?"  Of  course  not;  but 
think  of  that  remonstrance,  and  of  that  Samaritan 
master  of  the  Purchase  brigantine ! 

In  the  winter  of  '53  I  went  from  Marseilles  to  Civita 
Vecchia  in  one  of  the  magnificent  P.  and  0.  ships,  the 
Valetta,  the  master  of  which  subsequently  did  distin- 
guished service  in  the  Crimea.  This  was  his  first 
Mediterranean  voyage,  and  he  sailed  his  ship  by  the 
charts  alone,  going  into  each  port  as  surely  as  any 
pilot.  I  remember  walking  the  deck  at  night  with 
this  most  skillful,  gallant,  well-bred,  and  well-educated 
gentleman,  and  the  glow  of  eager  enthusiasm  with 
which  he  assented  when  I  asked  him  whether  he  did 
not  think  a  ribbon  or  order  would  be  welcome  or 
useful  in  his  service. 

Why  is  there  not  an  Order  of  Britannia  for 
British  seamen?  In  the  Merchant  and  the  Eoyal 
Navy  alike,  occur  almost  daily  instances  and  occa- 
sions for  the  display  of  science,  skill,  bravery,  forti- 
tude in  trying  circumstances,  resource  in  danger.  In 
the  First  Number  of  the  Cornhill  Magazine  a  friend 
contributed  a  most  touching  story  of  the  M'Clintock 
expedition,  in  the  dangers   and  dreadful  glories   of 


ON  RIBBONS.  47 

which  he  shared ;  and  the  writer  was  a  merchant  cap- 
tain. How  many  more  are  there  (and,  for  the  honor 
of  England,  may  there  be  many  like  him !) — gallant, 
accomplished,  high-spirited,  enterprising  masters  of 
their  noble  profession !  Can  our  fountain  of  Honor 
not  be  brought  to  such  men  ?  It  plays  upon  captains 
and  colonels  in  seemly  profusion.  It  pours  forth  not 
illiberal  rewards  upon  doctors  and  judges.  It  sprink- 
les mayors  and  aldermen.  It  bedews  a  painter  now 
and  again.  It  has  spirted  a  baronetcy  upon  two,  and 
bestowed  a  coronet  upon  one  noble  man  of  letters. 
Diplomatists  take  their  Bath  in  it  as  of  right ;  and  it 
flings  out  a  profusion  of  glittering  stars  upon  the  no- 
bility of  the  three  kingdoms.  Can  not  Britannia  find 
a  ribbon  for  her  sailors?  The  Navy,  royal  or  mer- 
cantile, is  a  Service,  The  command  of  a  ship,  or  the 
conduct  of  her,  implies  danger,  honor,  science,  skill, 
subordination,  good  faith.  It  may  be  a  victory,  such 
as  that  of  the  Sarah  Sands  ;  it  may  be  discovery,  such 
as  that  of  the  Fox  ;  it  may  be  heroic  disaster,  such  as 
that  of  the  Birkenhead;  and  in  such  events  merchant 
seamen,  as  well  as  royal  seamen,  take  their  share. 

Why  is  there  not,  then,  an  Order  of  Britannia? 
One  day  a  young  officer  of  the  Euryalus  may  win  it ; 
and,  having  just  read  the  memoirs  of  Lord  Dun- 
donald,  I  know  who  ought  to  have  the  first  Grand 
Cross. 


48 


ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 


ON  SOME  LATE  GREAT  VICTORIES, 


On  the  18th  day  of  April  last  I  went  to  see  a  friend 
in  a  neighboring  Crescent,  and  on  the  steps  of  the 
next  house  beheld  a  group  something  like  that  here 
depicted.  A  news-boy  had  stopped  in  his  walk,  and 
was  reading  aloud  the  journal  which  it  was  his  duty 


ON  SOME   LATE   GREAT  VICTORIES.  49 

to  deliver ;  a  pretty  orange-girl,  with  a  heap  of  blaz- 
ing fruit,  rendered  more  brilliant  by  one  of  those  great 
blue  papers  in  which  oranges  are  now  artfully  wrapped, 
leant  over  the  railing  and  listened ;  and  opposite  the 
nympham  discentem  there  was  a  capering  and  acute- 
eared  young  satirist  of  a  crossing-sweeper,  who  had 
left  his  neighboring  professional  avocation  and  chance 
of  profit  in  order  to  listen  to  the  tale  of  the  little  news- 
boy. 

That  intelligent  reader,  with  his  hand  following  the 
line  as  he  read  it  out  to  his  audience,  was  saying, 
"And — now — Tom — coming  up  smiling — after  his 
fall — dee — delivered  a  rattling  clinker  upon  the  Beni- 
cia  Boy's — potato-trap — but  was  met  by  a — punisher 
on  the  nose — which,"  etc.,  etc. ;  or  words  to  that  ef- 
fect. Betty  at  52  let  me  in  while  the  boy  was  read- 
ing his  lecture ;  and,  having  been  some  twenty  min- 
utes or  so  in  the  house  and  paid  my  visit,  I  took 
leave. 

The  little  lecturer  was  still  at  work  on  the  51  door- 
step, and  his  audience  had  scarcely  changed  their  posi- 
tion. Having  read  every  word  of  the  battle  myself 
in  the  morning,  I  did  not  stay  to  listen  farther ;  but  if 
the  gentleman  who  expected  his  paper  at  the  usual 
hour  that  day  experienced  delay  and  a  little  disap- 
pointment, I  shall  not  be  surprised. 

I  am  not  going  to  expatiate  on  the  battle.  I  have 
read  in  the  correspondent's  letter  of  a  Northern  news- 
paper that  in  the  midst  of  the  company  assembled  the 
reader's  humble  servant  was.  present,  and  in  a  very 
polite  society,  too,  of  "  poets,  clergymen,  men  of  letters, 
and  members  of  both  houses  of  Parliament."     If  so,  1 

C 


50  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

must  have  walked  to  the  station  in  my  sleep,  paid 
three  guineas  in  a  profound  fit  of  mental  abstraction, 
and  returned  to  bed  unconscious,  for  I  certainly  woke 
there  about  the  time  when  history  relates  that  the 
fight  was  over.  I  do  not  know  whose  colors  I  wore 
— the  Benician's,  or  those  of  the  Irish  champion  ;  nor 
remember  where  the  fight  took  place,  which,  indeed, 
no  somnambulist  is  bound  to  recollect.  Ought  Mr. 
Sayers  to  be  honored  for  being  brave,  or  punished  for 
being  naughty  ?  By  the  shade  of  Brutus  the  elder,  I 
don't  know. 

In  George  II. 's  time  there  was  a  turbulent  navy 
lieutenant  (Handsome  Smith  he  was  called — his  pic- 
ture is  at  Greenwich  now,  in  brown  velvet,  and  gold 
and  scarlet ;  his  coat  handsome,  his  waistcoat  exceed- 
ingly handsome,  but  his  face  by  no  means  the  beauty) 
— there  was,  I  say,  a  turbulent  young  lieutenant  who 
was  broke  on  a  complaint  of  the  French  embassador 
for  obliging  a  French  ship  of  war  to  lower  her  topsails 
to  his  ship  at  Spithead ;  but,  by  the  king's  orders,  Tom 
was  next  day  made  Captain  Smith.  Well,  if  I  were 
absolute  king,  I  would  send  Tom  Sayers  to  the  mill 
for  a  month,  and  make  him  Sir  Thomas  on  coming 
out  of  Clerkenwell.  You  are  a  naughty  boy,  Tom ; 
but  then,  you  know,  we  ought  to  love  our  brethren, 
though  ever  so  naughty.  We  are  moralists,  and  rep- 
rimand you ;  and  you  are  hereby  reprimanded  accord- 
ingly. But  in  case  England  should  ever  have  need 
of  a  few  score  thousand  champions  who  laugh  at  dan- 
ger ;  who  cope  with  giants ;  who,  stricken  to  the 
ground,  jump  up  and  gayly  rally,  and  fall,  and  rise 
again,  and  strike,  and  die  rather  than  yield — in  case 


ON  SOME   LATE   GREAT  VICTORIES.  51 

the  country  should  need  such  men,  and  you  should 
know  them,  be  pleased  to  send  lists  of  the  misguided 
persons  to  the  principal  police  stations,  where  means 
may  some  day  be  found  to  utilize  their  wretched  pow- 
ers, and  give  their  deplorable  energies  a  right  direc- 
tion. Suppose,  Tom,  that  you  and  your  friends  are 
pitted  against  an  immense  invader — suppose  you  are 
bent  on  holding  the  ground,  and  dying  there,  if  need 
be — suppose  it  is  life,  freedom,  honor,  home,  you  are 
fighting  for,  and  there  is  a  death-dealing  sword  or  rifle 
in  your  hand,  with  which  you  are  going  to  resist  some 
tremendous  enemy  who  challenges  your  champion- 
ship on  your  native  shore  ?  Then,  Sir  Thomas,  resist 
him  to  the  death,  and  it  is  all  right ;  kill  him,  and 
Heaven  bless  you.  Drive  him  into  the  sea,  and  there 
destroy,  smash,  and  drown  him ;  and  let  us  sing  Lau- 
damus.  In  these  national  cases,  you  see,  we  override 
the  indisputable  first  laws  of  morals.  Loving  your 
neighbor  is  very  well;  but  suppose  your  neighbor 
comes  over  from  Calais  and  Boulogne  to  rob  you  of 
your  laws,  your  liberties,  your  newspapers,  your  Par- 
liament (all  of  which  some  dear  neighbors  of  ours  have 
given  up  in  the  most  self-denying  manner) — suppose 
any  neighbor  were  to  cross  the  water  and  propose  this 
kind  of  thing  to  us,  should  we  not  be  justified  in  hum- 
bly trying  to  pitch  him  into  the  water  ?  If  it  were 
the  King  of  Belgium  himself  we  must  do  so.  I  mean 
that  fighting,  of  course,  is  wrong,  but  that  there  are 
occasions  when,  etc.  I  suppose  I  mean  that  that  one- 
handed  fight  of  Sayers's  is  one  of  the  most  spirit-stir- 
ring little  stories  ever  told ;  and,  with  every  love  and 
respect  for  Morality,  my  spirit  says  to  her,  "Do,  for 


52  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

goodness'  sake,  my  dear  madam,  keep  your  true,  and 
pure,  and  womanly,  and  gentle  remarks  for  another 
day.  Have  the  great  kindness  to  stand  a  leeile  aside, 
and  just  let  us  see  one  or  two  more  rounds  between 
the  men.  That  little  man  with  the  one  hand  power- 
less on  his  breast  facing  yonder  giant  for  hours,  and 
felling  him,  too,  every  now  and  then  !  It  is  the  little 
Java  and  the  Constitution  over  again." 

I  think  it  is  a  most  fortunate  event  for  the  brave 
Heenan,  who  has  acted  and  written  since  the  battle 
with  a  true  warrior's  courtesy,  and  with  a  great  deal 
of  good  logic  too,  that  the  battle  was  a  drawn  one. 
The  advantage  was  all  on  Mr.  Sayers's  side.  Say  a 
young  lad  of  sixteen  insults  me  in  the  street,  and  I  try 
and  thrash  him,  and  do  it.  Well,  I  have  thrashed  a 
young  lad.  You  great,  big  tyrant,  couldn't  you  hit 
your  own  size?  But  say  the  lad  thrashes  me?  In 
either  case  I  walk  away  discomfited,  but  in  the  latter 
I  am  positively  put  to  shame.  Now,  when  the  ropes 
were  cut  from  that  death-grip,  and  Sir  Thomas  re- 
leased, the  gentleman  of  Benicia  was  confessedly  blind 
of  one  eye,  and  speedily  afterward  was  blind  of  both. 
Could  Mr.  Sayers  have  held  out  for  three  minutes,  for 
five  minutes,  for  ten  minutes  more  ?  He  says  he  could. 
So  we  say  we  could  have  held  out,  and  did,  and  had 
beaten  off  the  enemy  at  Waterloo,  even  if  the  Prus- 
sians hadn't  come  up.  The  opinions  differ  pretty  much 
according  to  the  nature  of  the  opinants.  I  say  the 
Duke  and  Tom  could  have  held  out,  that  they  meant 
to  hold  out,  that  they  did  hold  out,  and  that  there  has 
been  fistifying  enough.  That  crowd  which  came  in 
and  stopped  the  fight  ought  to  be  considered  like  one 


ON   SOME   LATE   GREAT   VICTORIES.  53 

of  those  divine  clouds  which  the  gods  send  in  IIo- 
mer: 

11  Apollo  shrouds 
The  godlike  Trojan  in  a  veil  of  clouds." 

It  is  the  best  way  of  getting  the  godlike  Trojan  out 
of  the  scrape,  don't  you  see  ?  The  nodus  is  cut ;  Tom 
is  out  of  Chancery ;  the  Benicia  Boy  not  a  bit  the 
worse,  nay,  better  than  if  he  had  beaten  the  little  man. 
He  has  not  the  humiliation  of  conquest.  He  is  great- 
er, and  will  be  loved  more  hereafter  by  the  gentle  sex. 
Suppose  he  had  overcome  the  godlike  Trojan?  Sup- 
pose he  had  tied  Tom's  corpse  to  his  cab-wheels,  and 
driven  to  Farnham,  smoking  the  pipe  of  triumph? 
Faugh  !  the  great,  hulking  conqueror !  Why  did  you 
not  hold  your  hand  from  yonder  hero  ?  Every  body, 
I  say,  was  relieved  by  that  opportune  appearance  of 
the  British  gods,  protectors  of  native  valor,  who  inter- 
fered, and  "  withdrew"  their  champion. 

Now,  suppose  six-feet-two  conqueror,  and  five-feet- 
eight  beaten ;  would  Sayers  have  been  a  whit  the  less 
gallant  and  meritorious  ?  If  Sancho  had  been  allow- 
ed  really  to  reign  in  Barataria,  I  make  no  doubt  that 
with  his  good  sense  and  kindness  of  heart  he  would 
have  devised  some  means  of  rewarding  the  brave  van- 
quished as  well  as  the  brave  victors  in  the  Baratarian 
army,  and  that  a  champion  who  had  fought  a  good 
fight  would  have  been  a  knight  of  King  Don  Sancho's 
orders,  whatever  the  upshot  of  the  combat  had  been. 
Suppose  Wellington  overwhelmed  on  the  plateau  of 
Mont  St.  John;  suppose  Washington  attacked  and 
beaten  at  Valley-  Forge — and  either  supposition  is  quite 
easy — and  what  becomes  of  the  heroes  ?     They  would 


54  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

have  been  as  brave,  honest,  heroic,  wise;  but  their 
glory,  where  would  it  have  been?  Should  we  have 
had  their  portraits  hanging  in  our  chambers?  have 
been  familiar  with  their  histories  ?  have  pondered  over 
their  letters,  common  lives,  and  daily  sayings  ?  There 
is  not  only  merit,  but  luck  which  goes  to  making  a 
hero  out  of  a  gentleman.  Mind,  please  you,  I  am  not 
saying  that  the  hero  is,  after  all,  not  so  very  heroic, 
and  have  not  the  least  desire  to  grudge  him  his  merit 
because  of  his  good  fortune. 

Have  you  any  idea  whither  this  Eoundabout  Essay 
on  some  late  great  victories  is  tending  ?  Do  you  sup- 
pose that  by  those  words  I  mean  Trenton,  Brandy- 
wine,  Salamanca,  Yittoria,  and  so  forth  ?  By  a  great 
victory  I  can't  mean  that  affair  at  Farnham,  for  it  was 
a  drawn  fight.  Where  then  are  the  victories,  pray, 
and  when  are  we  coming  to  them  ? 

My  good  sir,  you  will  perceive  that  in  this  Nicsean 
discourse  I  have  only  as  yet  advanced  as  far  as  this — 
that  a  hero,  whether  he  wins  or  loses,  is  a  hero ;  and 
that  if  a  fellow  will  but  be  honest  and  courageous,  and 
do  his  best,  we  are  for  paying  all  honor  to  him.  Fur- 
thermore, it  has  been  asserted  that  Fortune  has  a  good 
deal  to  do  with  the  making  of  heroes ;  and  thus  hint- 
ed for  the  consolation  of  those  who  don't  happen  to 
be  engaged  in  any  stupendous  victories,  that,  had  op- 
portunity so  served,  they  might  have  been  heroes  too. 
If  you  are  not,  friend,  it  is  not  your  fault,  while  I  don't 
wish  to  detract  from  any  gentleman's  reputation  who  is. 
There.  My  worst  enemy  can't  take  objection  to  that. 
The  point  might  have  been  put  more  briefly  perhaps, 
but,  if  you  please,  we  will  not  argue  that  question. 


ON  SOME   LATE   GREAT  VICTORIES.  55 

Well,  then,  the  victories  which  I  wish  especially  to 
commemorate  in  this  the  last  article  of  our  first  vol- 
ume are  the  six  great,  complete,  prodigious,  and  unde- 
niable victories  achieved  by  the  corps  which  the  edi- 
tor of  the  Cornhill  Magazine  has  the  honor  to  com- 
mand. When  I  seemed  to  speak  disparagingly  but 
now  of  generals,  it  was  that  chief  I  had  in  my  I  (if 
you  will  permit  me  the  expression) ;  I  wished  him  not 
to  be  elated  by  too  much  prosperity;  I  warned  him 
against  assuming  heroic  imperatorial  airs,  and  cocking 
his  laurels  too  jauntily  over  his  ear.  I  was  his  con- 
science, and  stood  on  the  splash-board  of  his  triumph- 
car,  whispering  "Hominem  memento  te"  As  we  rolled 
along  the  way,  and  passed  the  weather-cocks  on  the 
-temples,  I  saluted  the  symbol  of  the  goddess  Fortune 
with  a  reverent  awe.  "  We  have  done  our  little  en- 
deavor," I  said,  bowing  my  head,  "  and  mortals  can  do 
no  more.  But  we  might  have  fought  bravely,  and  not 
won.  We  might  have  cast  the  coin,  calling  '  Head,' 
and  lo !  Tail  might  have  come  uppermost."  Oh  thou 
Kuler  of  Victories !  thou  awarder  of  Fame !  thou  Giver 
of  Crowns  (and  shillings) — if  thou  hast  smiled  upon 
us,  shall  we  not  be  thankful?  There  is  a  saturnine 
philosopher  standing  at  the  door  of  his  book-shop, 
who,  I  fancy,  has  a  pooh-pooh  expression  as  the  tri- 
umph passes.  (I  can't  see  quite  clearly  for  the  lau- 
rels, which  have  fallen  down  over  my  nose.)  One 
hand  is  reining  in  the  two  white  elephants  that  draw 
the  car ;  I  raise  the  other  hand  up  to — to  the  laurels, 
and  pass  on,  waving  him  a  graceful  recognition.  Up 
the  Hill  of  Ludgatc — around  the  Pauline  Square — by 
the  side  of  Chepe — until  it  reaches  our  own  Hill  of 


56  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

Corn — the  procession  passes.  The  Imperator  is  bow- 
ing to  the  people ;  the  captains  of  the  legions  are  rid- 
ing round  the  car,  their  gallant  minds  struck  by  the 
thought,  "  Have  we  not  fought  as  well  as  yonder  fel- 
low swaggering  in  the  chariot,  and  are  we  not  as  good 
as  he?"  Granted,  with  all  my  heart,  my  dear  lads. 
When  your  consulship  arrives,  may  you  be  as  fortu- 
nate. When  these  hands,  now  growing  old,  shall  lay 
down  sword  and  truncheon,  may  you  mount  the  car, 
and  ride  to  the  temple  of  Jupiter.  Be  yours  the  lau- 
rel then.  Neque  me  myrtus  dedecet,  looking  cozily  down 
from  the  arbor  where  I  sit  under  the  arched  vine. 

I  fancy  the  Imperator  standing  on  the  steps  of  the 
temple  (erected  by  Titus)  on  the  Mons  Frumentarius, 
and  addressing  the  citizens :  "  Quirites !"  he  says,  "  in 
our  campaign  of  six  months,  we  have  been  engaged 
six  times,  and  in  each  action  have  taken  near  upon  a 
hundred  thousand  prisoners.  Go  to !  What  are  other 
magazines  compared  to  our  magazine  ?  (Sound,  trump- 
eter !)  What  banner  is  there  like  that  of  Cornhill  ? 
You,  philosopher  yonder"  (he  shirks  under  his  man- 
tle), "do  you  know  what  it  is  to  have  a  hundred  and 
ten  thousand  readers  ?  A  hundred  thousand  readers  ? 
a  hundred  thousand  buyers  /"  (Cries  of  No !  Pooh ! 
Yes,  upon  my  honor !  Oh,  come !  and  murmurs  of 
applause  and  derision) — "  I  say,  more  than  a  hundred 
thousand  purchasers,  and  I  believe  as  much  as  a  million 
readers  !"  (Immense  sensation.)  "  To  these  have  we 
said  an  unkind  word?  We  have  enemies;  have  we 
hit  them  an  unkind  blow?  Have  we  sought  to  pur- 
sue party  aims,  to  forward  private  jobs,  to  advance 
selfish  schemes?    The  only  persons  to  whom  witting- 


ON  SOME   LATE  GREAT  VICTORIES.  57 

ly  we  have  given  pain  are  some  who  have  volunteered 
for  our  corps,  and  of  these  volunteers  we  have  had 
thousands."  (Murmurs  and  grumbles.)  "What  com- 
mander, citizens,  could  place  all  these  men  —  could 
make  officers  of  all  these  men?"  (cries  of  No,  no,  and 
laughter) — "could  say,  'I  accept  this  recruit,  though 
he  is  too  short  for  our  standard,  because  he  is  poor  and 
has  a  mother  at  home  who  wants  bread  V  could  enroll 
this  other,  who  is  too  weak  to  bear  arms,  because  he 
says, '  Look,  sir,  I  shall  be  stronger  anon.'  The  leader 
of  such  an  army  as  ours  must  select  his  men,  not  be- 
cause they  are  good  and  virtuous,  but  because  they 
are  strong  and  capable.  To  these  our  ranks  are  ever 
open,  and  in  addition  to  the  warriors  who  surround 
me" — (the  generals  look  proudly  conscious) — "I  tell 
you,  citizens,  that  I  am  in  treaty  with  other  and  most 
tremendous  champions,  who  will  march  by  the  side 
of  our  veterans  to  the  achievement  of  fresh  victories. 
Now,  blow  trumpets !  Bang,  ye  gongs !  and  drum- 
mers, drub  the  thundering  skins !  Generals  and  chiefs, 
we  go  to  sacrifice  to  the  gods." 

Crowned  with  flowers,  the  captains  enter  the  tem- 
ple, the  other  Magazines  walking  modestly  behind 
them.  The  people  hurrah,  and,  in  some  instances, 
kneel  and  kiss  the  fringes  of  the  robes  of  the  warriors. 
The  philosopher  puts  up  his  shutters,  and  retires  into 
his  shop,  deeply  moved.  In  ancient  times, 'Pliny  (apud 
Smith)  relates  it  was  the  custom  of  the  Imperator  M  to 
paint  his  whole  body  a  bright  red ;"  and  also,  on  as- 
cending the  Hill,  to  have  some  of  the  hostile  chiefs 
led  aside  "  to  the  adjoining  prison  and  put  to  death." 
We  propose  to  dispense  with  both  these  ceremonies. 

C2 


58 


ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 


THORNS  IN  THE  CUSHION. 


In  the  Essay  with  which  our  first  Number  closed, 
the  Cornhill  Magazine  was  likened  to  a  ship  sail- 
ing forth  on  her  voyage,  and  the  captain  uttered  a 
very  sincere  prayer  for  her  prosperity.  The  dangers 
of  storm  and  rock ;  the  vast  outlay  upon  ship  and 
cargo,  and  the  certain  risk  of  the  venture,  gave  the 


THORNS  IN   THE   CUSHION.  59 

chief  officer  a  feeling  of  no  small  anxiety ;  for  who 
could  say  from  what  quarter  danger  might  arise,  and 
how  his  owner's  property  might  be  imperiled?  After 
a  six  months'  voyage,  we  with  very  thankful  hearts 
could  acknowledge  our  good  fortune ;  and,  taking  up 
the  apologue  in  the  Koundabout  manner,  we  composed 
a  triumphal  procession  in  honor  of  the  Magazine,  and 
imagined  the  Imperator  thereof  riding  in  a  sublime 
car  to  return  thanks  in  the  Temple  of  Victory.  Corn- 
hill  is  accustomed  to  grandeur  and  greatness,  and  has 
witnessed,  every  ninth  of  November  for  I  don't  know 
how  many  centuries,  a  prodigious  annual  pageant, 
chariot  progress,  and  flourish  of  trumpetry ;  and  our 
publishing  office  being  so  very  near  the  Mansion- 
House,  I  am  sure  the  reader  will  understand  how  the 
idea  of  pageant  and  procession  came  naturally  to  my 
mind.  The  imagination  easily  supplied  a  gold  coach, 
eight  cream-colored  horses  of  your  true  Pegasus  breed, 
hurrahing  multitudes,  running  footmen,  and  clanking 
knights  in  armor,  a  chaplain  and  a  sword-bearer  with 
a  muff  on  his  head,  scowling  out  of  the  coach-window, 
and  a  lord  mayor  all  crimson,  fur,  gold  chain,  and 
white  ribbons,  solemnly  occupying  the  place  of  state. 
A  playful  fancy  could  have  carried  the  matter  farther, 
could  have  depicted  the  feast  in  the  Egyptian  Hall, 
the  ministers,  chief  justices,  and  right  reverend  prel- 
ates taking  their  seats  round  about  his  lordship,  the 
turtle  and  other  delicious  viands,  and  Mr.  Toole  be- 
hind the  central  throne,  bawling  out  to  the  assembled 
guests  and  dignitaries,  "  My  Lord  So-and-so,  my  Lord 
What-d'ye-call-'im,  my  Lord  Etcaetera,  the  lord  mayor 
pledges  you  all  in  a  loving  cup."     Then  the  noble 


60  ROUNDABOUT  PAPEES. 

proceedings  come  to  an  end;  Lord  Simper  proposes 
the  ladies ;  the  company  rises  from  table,  and  adjourns 
to  coffee  and  muffins.  The  carriages  of  the  nobility 
and  guests  roll  back  to  the  West.  The  Egyptian 
Hall,  so  bright  just  now,  appears  in  a  twilight  glim- 
mer, in  which  waiters  are  seen  ransacking  the  dessert 
and  rescuing  the  spoons.  His  lordship  and  thq  lady 
mayoress  go  into  their  private  apartments ;  the  robes 
are  doffed,  the  collar  and  white  ribbons  are  removed ; 
the  mayor  becomes  a  man,  and  is  pretty  surely  in  a 
fluster  about  the  speeches  which  he  has  just  uttered, 
remembering  too  well  now,  wretched  creature,  the 
principal  points  which  he  didn't  make  when  he  rose 
to  speak.  He  goes  to  bed  to  headache,  to  care,  to  re- 
pentance, and,  I  dare  say,  to  a  dose  of  something  which 
his  body -physician  has  prescribed  for  him.  And  there 
are  ever  so  many  men  in  the  city  who  fancy  that  man 
happy ! 

Now  suppose  that  all  through  that  9th  of  Novem- 
ber his  lordship  has  had  a  racking  rheumatism,  or  a 
toothache,  let  us  say,  during  all  dinner-time,-  through 
which  he  has  been  obliged  to  grin  and  mumble  his 
poor  old  speeches.  Is  he  enviable  ?  Would  you  like 
to  change  with  his  lordship  ?  Suppose  that  bumper 
which  his  golden  footman  brings  him,  instead  i'fack- 
ins  of  ypocras  or  canary,  contains  some  abomination 
of  senna  ?  Away !  Eemove  the  golden  goblet,  in- 
sidious cup-bearer !  You  now  begin  to  perceive  the 
gloomy  moral  which  I  am  about  to  draw. 

Last  month  we  sang  the  song  of  glorification,  and 
rode  in  the  chariot  of  triumph.  It  was  all  very  well. 
It  was  right  to  hurrah,  and  be  thankful,  and  cry  Bravo, 


THORNS  IN  THE   CUSHION.  61 

our  side !  and  besides,  you  know,  there  was  the  enjoy- 
ment of  thinking  how  pleased  Brown,  and  Jones,  and 
Kobinson  (our  dear  friends)  would  be  at  this  announce- 
ment of  success.  But,  now  that  the  performance  is 
over,  my  good  sir,  just  step  into  my  private  room,  and 
see  that  it  is  not  all  pleasure — this  winning  of  success- 
es. Cast  your  eye  over  those  newspapers,  over  those 
letters.  See  what  the  critics  say  of  your  harmless 
jokes,  neat  little  trim  sentences,  and  pet  waggeries! 
Why,  you  are  no  better  than  an  idiot ;  you  are  drivel- 
ing; your  powers  have  left  you;  this  always  over- 
rated writer  is  rapidly  sinking  to,  etc. 

This  is  not  pleasant ;  but  neither  is  this  the  point. 
It  may  be  the  critic  is  right  and  the  author  wrong. 
It  may  be  that  the  archbishop's  sermon  is  not  so  fine 
as  some  of  those  discourses  twenty  years  ago  which 
used  to  delight  the  faithful  in  Granada,  Or  it  may 
be  (pleasing  thought !)  that  the  critic  is  a  dullard,  and 
does  not  understand  what  he  is  writing  about.  Every 
body  who  has  been  to  an  exhibition  has  heard  visitors 
discoursing  about  the  pictures  before  their  faces.  One 
says,  "  This  is  very  well ;"  another  says,  "  This  is  stuff 
and  rubbish ;"  another  cries,  "  Bravo !  this  is  a  master- 
piece ;"  and  each  has  a  right  to  his  opinion.  For  ex- 
ample, one  of  the  pictures  I  admired  most  at  the  Eoy- 
al  Academy  is  by  a  gentleman  on  whom  I  never,  to 
my  knowledge,  set  eyes.  This  picture  is  No.  346, 
Moses,  by  Mr.  S.  Solomon.  I  thought  it  had  a  great 
intention.  I  thought  it  finely  drawn  and  composed. 
It  nobly  represented,  to  my  mind,  the  dark  children 
of  the  Egyptian  bondage,  and  suggested  the  touching 
story.     My  newspaper  says,  "Two  ludicrously  ugly 


62  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

women,  looking  at  a  dingy  baby,  do  not  form  a  pleas- 
ing object;"  and  so  good-by,  Mr.  Solomon.  Are  not 
most  of  our  babies  served  so  in  life  ?  and  doesn't  Mr. 
Eobinson  consider  Mr.  Brown's  cherub  an  ugly,  squall- 
ing little  brat  ?  So  cheer  up,  Mr.  S.  S.  It  may  be  the 
critic  who  discoursed  on  your  baby  is  a  bad  judge  of 
babies.  When  Pharaoh's  kind  daughter  found  the 
child,  and  cherished  and  loved  it,  and  took  it  home, 
and  found  a  nurse  for  it  too,  I  dare  say  there  were 
grim,  brickdust-colored  chamberlains,  or  some  of  the 
tough,  old,  meagre,  yellow  princesses  at  court,  who 
never  had  children  themselves,  who  cried  out,  " Faugh! 
the  horrid  little  squalling  wretch !"  and  knew  he  would 
never  come  to  good ;  and  said,  "  Didn't  I  tell  you  so  ?" 
when  he  assaulted  the  Egyptian. 

Never  mind  then,  Mr.  S.  Solomon,  I  say,  because  a 
critic  pooh-poohs  your  work  of  art — your  Moses — 
your  child — your  foundling.  Why,  did  not  a  wise- 
acre in  Blackwood' 's  Magazine  lately  fall  foul  of  Tom 
Jones  ?  Oh  hypercritic  !  So,  to  be  sure,  did  good  old 
Mr.  Eichardson,  who  could  write  novels  himself;  but 
you,  and  I,  and  Mr.  Gibbon,  my  dear  sir,  agree  in  giv- 
ing our  respect,  and  wonder,  and  admiration  to  the 
brave  old  master. 

In  these  last  words  I  am  supposing  the  respected 
reader  to  be  endowed  with  a  sense  of  humor,  which 
he  may  or  may  not  possess ;  indeed,  don't  we  know 
many  an  honest  man  who  can  no  more  comprehend  a 
joke  than  he  can  turn  a  tune  ?  But  I  take  for  grant-* 
ed,  my  dear  sir,  that  you  are  brimming  over  with  fun ; 
you  mayn't  make  jokes,  but  you  could  if  you  would 
— you  know  you  could ;  and  in  your  quiet  way  you 


THOKNS  IN  THE   CUSHION.  63 

enjoy  them  extremely.  Now  many  people  neither 
make  them,  nor  understand  them  when  made,  nor  like 
them  when  understood ;  and  are  suspicious,  testy,  and 
angry  with  jokers.  Have  you  ever  watched  an  elder- 
ly male  or  female — an  elderly  "party,"  so  to  speak, 
who  begins  to  find  out  that  some  young  wag  of  the 
company  is  "charring"  him?  Have  you  ever  tried 
the  sarcastic  or  Socratic  method  with  a  child  ?  Little 
simple  he  or  she,  in  the  innocence  of  the  simple  heart, 
plays  some  silly  freak,  or  makes  some  absurd  remark, 
which  you  turn  to  ridicule.  The  little  creature  dimly 
perceives  that  you  are  making  fun  of  him,  writhes, 
blushes,  grows  uneasy,  bursts  into  tears — upon  my 
word  it  is  not  fair  to  try  the  weapon  of  ridicule  upon 
that  innocent  young  victim.  The  awful  objurgatory 
practice  he  is  accustomed  to.  Point  out  his  fault,  and 
lay  bare  the  dire  consequences  thereof;  expose  it 
roundly,  and  give  him  a  proper,  solemn,  moral  whip- 
ping, but  do  not  attempt  to  castigare  ridendo.  Do  not 
laugh  at  him  writhing,  and  cause  all  the  other  boys  in 
the  school  to  laugh.  Eemember  your  own  young 
days  at  school,  my  friend — the  tingling  cheeks,  burn- 
ing ears,  bursting  heart,  and  passion  of  desperate  tears, 
with  which  you  looked  up,  after  having  performed 
some  blunder,  while  the  doctor  held  you  to  public 
scorn  before  the  class,  and  cracked  his  great  clumsy 
jokes  upon  you — helpless,  and  a  prisoner!  Better 
the  block  itself,  and  the  lictors,  with  their  fasces  of 
birch  twigs,  than  the  maddening  torture  of  those 
jokes ! 

Now  with  respect  to  jokes — and  the  present  com- 
pany of  course  excepted — many  people,  perhaps  most 


64  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

people,  are  as  infants.  They  have  little  sense  of  hu- 
mor. They  don't  like  jokes.  Eaillery  in  writing  an- 
noys and  offends  them.  The  coarseness  apart,  I  think 
I  have  met  very,  very  few  women  who  liked  the  ban- 
ter of  Swift  and  Fielding.  Their  simple,  tender  na- 
tures revolt  at  laughter.  Is  the  satyr  always  a  wick- 
ed brute  at  heart,  and  are  they  rightly  shocked  at  his 
grin,  his  leer,  his  horns,  hoofs,  and  ears  ?  Fi  done,  le 
vilain  monstre,  with  his  shrieks,  and  his  capering  crook- 
ed legs !  Let  him  go  and  get  a  pair  of  well- wadded 
black  silk  stockings,  and  pull  them  over  those  horrid 
shanks  ;  put  a  large  gown  and  bands  over  beard  and 
hide ;  and  pour  a  dozen  of  lavender  water  into  his 
lawn  handkerchief,  and  cry,  and  never  make  a  joke 
again.  It  shall  all  be  highly-distilled  poesy,  and  per- 
fumed sentiment,  and  gushing  eloquence ;  and  the  foot 
shdnH  peep  out,  and  a  plague  take  it.  Cover  it  up 
with  the  surplice.  Out  with  your  cambric,  dear  la- 
dies, and  let  us  all  whimper  together. 

Now,  then,  hand  on  heart,  we  declare  that  it  is  not 
the  fire  of  adverse  critics  which  afflicts  or  frightens 
the  editorial  bosom.  They  may  be  right ;  they  may 
be  rogues  who  have  a  personal  spite ;  they  may  be 
dullards  who  kick  and  bray  as  their  nature  is  to  do, 
and  prefer  thistles  to  pine-apples ;  they  may  be  con- 
scientious, acute,  deeply  learned,  delightful  judges, 
who  see  your  joke  in  a  moment,  and  the  profound 
wisdom  lying  underneath.  Wise  or  dull,  laudatory 
or  otherwise,  we  put  their  opinions  aside.  If  they  ap- 
plaud, we  are  pleased ;  if  they  shake  their  quick  pens, 
and  fly  off  with  a  hiss,  we  resign  their  favors  and  put 
on  all  the  fortitude  we  can  muster.     I  would  rather 


THORNS  IN  THE  CUSHION.  65 

have  the  lowest  man's  good  word  than  his  bad  one,  to 
be  sure ;  but  as  for  coaxing  a  compliment,  or  wheed- 
ling him  into  good-humor,  or  stopping  his  angry 
mouth  with  a  good  dinner,  or  accepting  his  contribu- 
tions for  a  certain  Magazine,  for  fear  of  his  barking  or 
snapping  elsewhere — allons  done  !  These  shall  not  be 
our  acts.  Bow-wow,  Cerberus !  Here  shall  be  no 
sop  for  thee,  unless — unless  Cerberus  is  an  uncom- 
monly good  dog,  when  we  shall  bear  no  malice  be- 
cause he  flew  at  us  from  our  neighbor's  gate. 

What,  then,  is  the  main  grief  you  spoke  of  as  an- 
noying you — the  toothache  in  the  lord  mayor's  jaw, 
the  thorn  in  the  cushion  of  the  editorial  chair  ?  It  is 
there.  Ah !  it  stings  me  now  as  I  write.  It  comes 
with  almost  every  morning's  post.  At  night  I  come 
home,  and  take  my  letters  up  to  bed  (not  daring  to 
open  them),  and  in  the  morning  I  find  one,  two,  three 
thorns  on  my  pillow.  Three  I  extracted  yesterday  ; 
two  I  found  this  morning.  They  don't  sting  quite  so 
sharply  as  they  did ;  but  a  skin  is  a  skin,  and  they 
bite,  after  all,  most  wickedly.  It  is  all  very  fine  to 
advertise  on  the  Magazine,  "  Contributions  are  only  to 
be  sent  to  65  Cornhill,  and  not  to  the  editor's  private 
residence."  My  dear  sir,  how  little  you  know  man- 
or woman-kind  if  you  fancy  they  will  take  that  sort 
of  warning !  How  am  I  to  know  (though,  to  be  sure, 
I  begin  to  know  now),  as  I  take  the  letters  off  the 
tray,  which  of  those  envelopes  contains  a  real  bona 
fide  letter  and  which  a  thorn?  One  of  the  best  in- 
vitations this  year  I  mistook  for  a  thorn-letter,  and 
kept  it  without  opening.  This  is  what  I  call  a  thorn- 
letter  : 


66  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

* 

Camberwell,  June  4. 
Sir, — May  I  hope,  may  I  entreat,  that  you  will  favor  me  by  pe- 
rusing the  inclosed  lines,  and  that  they  may  be  found  worthy  of  in- 
sertion in  the  Comhill  Magazine  ?  We  have  known  better  days,  sir. 
I  have  a  sick  and  widowed  mother  to  maintain,  and  little  brothers 
and  sisters  who  look  to  me.  I  do  my  utmost  as  a  governess  to  sup- 
port them.  I  toil  at  night  when  they  are  at  rest,  and  my  own  hand 
and  brain  are  alike  tired.  If  I  could  add  but  a  little  to  our  means  by 
my  pen,  many  of  my  poor  invalid's  wants  might  be  supplied,  and  I 
could  procure  for  her  comforts  to  which  she  is  now  a  stranger. 
Heaven  knows  it  is  not  for  want  of  will  or  for  want  of  energy  on  my 
part  that  she  is  now  in  ill  health,  and  our  little  household  almost  with- 
out bread.  Do — do  cast  a  kind  glance  over  my  poem,  and  if  you  can 
help  us,  the  widow,  the  orphans  will  bless  you!  I  remain,  sir,  in 
anxious  expectancy,  your  faithful  servant,  S.  S.  S. 

And  inclosed  is  a  little  poem  or  two,  and  an  envelope 
with  its  penny  stamp — Heaven  help  us! — and  the 
writer's  name  and  address. 

Now  you  see  what  I  mean  by  a  thorn.  Here  is  the 
case  put  with  true  female  logic.  "  I  am  poor ;  I  am 
good ;  I  am  ill ;  I  work  hard ;  I  have  a  sick  mother 
and  hungry  brothers  and  sisters  dependent  on  me. 
You  can  help  us  if  you  will."  And  then  I  look  at 
the  paper,  with  the  thousandth  part  of  a  faint  hope 
that  it  may  be  suitable,  and  I  find  it  won't  do ;  and  I 
knew  it  wouldn't  do ;  and  why  is  this  poor  lady  to 
appeal  to  my  pity,  and  bring  her  poor  little  ones 
kneeling  to  my  bedside,  and  calling  for  bread  which 
I  can  give  them  if  I  choose  ?  No  day  passes  but  that 
argument  ad  misericordiam  is  used.  Day  and  night 
that  sad  voice  is  crying  out  for  help.  Thrice  it  ap- 
pealed to  me  yesterday.  Twice  this  morning  it  cried 
to  me ;  and  I  have  no  doubt,  when  I  go  to  get  my 
hat,  I  shall  find  it,  with  its  piteous  face  and  its  pale 


THORNS  IN  THE   CUSHION.  67 

family  about  it,  waiting  for  me  in  the  hall.  One  of 
the  immense  advantages  which  women  have  over  our 
sex  is  that  they  actually  like  to  read  these  letters. 
Like  letters?  Oh  mercy  on  us!  Before  I  was  an 
editor  I  did  not  like  the  postman  much ;  but  now ! 

A  very  common  way  with  these  petitioners  is  to 
begin  with  a  fine  flummery  about  the  merits  and 
eminent  genius  of  the  person  whom  they  are  address- 
ing. But  this  artifice,  I  state  publicly,  is  of  no  avail. 
When  I  see  that  kind  of  herb,  I  know  the  snake  with- 
in it,  and  fling  it  away  before  it  has  time  to  sting. 
Away,  reptile,  to  the  waste-paper  basket,  and  thence 
to  the  flames ! 

But  of  these  disappointed  people,  some  take  their 
disappointment  and  meekly  bear  it.  Some  hate  and 
hold  you  their  enemy  because  you  could  not  be  their 
friend.  Some,  furious  and  envious,  say,  "  Who  is  this 
man  who  refuses  what  I  offer,  and  how  dares  he,  the 
conceited  coxcomb,  to  deny  my  merit  ?" 

Sometimes  my  letters  contain  not  mere  thorns,  but 
bludgeons.  Here  are  two  choice  slips  from  that  noble 
Irish  oak,  which  has  more  than  once  supplied  alpeens 
for  this  meek  and  unoffending  skull : 

Theatre  Royal,  Donnybrook. 

Sir, — I  have  just  finished  reading  the  first  portion  of  your  tale, 
Lovel  the  Widower,  and  am  much  surprised  at  the  unwarrantable 
strictures  you  pass  therein  on  the  corps  de  ballet. 

I  have  been  for  more  than  ten  years  connected  with  the  theatrical 
profession,  and  I  beg  to  assure  you  that  the  majority  of  the  corps  de 
ballet  are  virtuous,  well-conducted  girls,  and,  consequently,  that  snug 
cottages  are  not  taken  for  them  in  the  Regent's  Park. 

I  also  have  to  inform  you  that  theatrical  managers  are  in  the  habit 
of  speaking  good  Euglish,  possibly  better  English  than  authors. 


DO  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

You  either  know  nothing  of  the  subject  in  question,  or  you  assert  a 
willful  falsehood. 

I  am  happy  to  say  that  the  characters  of  the  corps  de  ballet,  as  also 
those  of  actors  and  actresses,  are  superior  to  the  snarlings  of  dyspeptic 
libelers,  or  the  spiteful  attacks  and  brutum  fulmen  of  ephemeral  au- 
thors. I  am,  sir,  your  obedient  servant, 

The  Editor  of  the  Corrihill  Magazine.  A.  B.  C. 

Theatre  Royal,  Donnybrook. 

Sir, — I  have  just  read,  in  the  Cornhill  Magazine  for  January,  the 
first  portion  of  a  tale  written  by  you,  and  entitled  Lovel  the  Widower. 

In  the  production  in  question  you  employ  all  your  malicious'  spite 
(and  you  have  great  capabilities  that  way)  in  trying  to  degrade  the 
character  of  the  corps  de  ballet.  When  you  imply  that  the  majority 
of  ballet-girls  have  villas  taken  for  them  in  the  Regent's  Park,  /  say 
you  tell  a  deliberate  falsehood. 

Haveing  been  brought  up  to  the  stage  from  infancy,  and,  though 
now  an  actress,  haveing  been  seven  years  principal  dancer  at  the  op- 
era, I  am  competent  to  speak  on  the  subject.  I  am  only  surprised 
that  so  vile  a  libeler  as  yourself  should  be  allowed  to  preside  at  the 
Dramatic  Fund  dinner  on  the  22d  instant.  I  think  it  would  be  much 
better  if  you  were  to  reform  your  own  life,  instead  of  telling  lies  of 
those  who  are  immeasurably  your  superiors. 

Yours  in  supreme  disgust,  A.  D. 

The  signatures  of  the  respected  writers  are  altered, 
and  for  the  site  of  their  Theatre  Eojal  an  adjacent 
place  is  named,  which  (as  I  may  have  been  falsely  in- 
formed) used  to  be  famous  for  quarrels,  thumps,  and 
broken  heads.  But,  I  say,  is  this  an  easy  chair  to  sit 
on  when  you  are  liable  to  have  a  pair  of  such  shilla- 
lahs  flung  at  it  ?  And,  prithee,  what  was  all- the  quar- 
rel about  ?  In  the  little  history  of  Lovel  the  Widower 
I  described,  and  brought  to  condign  punishment,  a 
certain  wretch  of  a  ballet-dancer,  who  lived  splendid- 
ly for  a  while  on  ill-gotten  gains,  had  an  accident,  and 
lost  her  beauty,  and  died  poor,  deserted,  ugly,  and  ev- 


THOKNS  IN  THE   CUSHION.  69 

ery  way  odious.  In  the  same  page. other  little  ballet- 
dancers  are  described,  wearing  homely  clothing,  doing 
their  duty,  and  carrying  their  humble  savings  to  the 
family  at  home.  But  nothing  will  content  my  dear 
correspondents  but  to  have  me  declare  that  the  major- 
ity of  ballet-dancers  have  villas  in  the  Eegent's  Park, 
and  to  convict  me  of  "  deliberate  falsehood."  Sup- 
pose, for  instance,  I  had  chosen  to  introduce  a  red- 
haired  washerwoman  into  a  story?  I  might  get  an 
expostulatory  letter  saying,  "Sir,  in  stating  that  the 
majority  of  washerwomen  are  red-haired,  you  are  a 
liar !  and  you  had  best  not  speak  of  ladies  who  are 
immeasurably  your  superiors."  Or  suppose  I  had 
ventured  to  describe  an  illiterate  haberdasher  ?  One 
of  the  craft  might  write  to  me,  "  Sir,  in  describing 
haberdashers  as  illiterate,  you  utter  a  willful  false- 
hood. Haberdashers  use  much  better  English  than 
authors."  It  is  a  mistake,  to  be  sure.  I  have  never 
said  what  my  correspondents  say  I  say.  There  is  the 
text  under  their  noses,  but  what  if  they  choose  to  read 
it  their  own  way  ?  "  Hurroo,  lads  !  Here's  for  a 
fight.  There's  a  bald  head  peeping  out  of  the  hut. 
There's  a  bald  head !  It  must  be  Tim  Malone's." 
And  whack !  come  down  both  the  bludgeons  at  once. 
Ah  me !  we  wound  where  we  never  intended  to 
strike ;  we  create  anger  where  we  never  meant  harm ; 
and  these  thoughts  are  the  thorns  in  our  Cushion. 
Out  of  mere  malignity,  I  suppose,  there  is  no  man 
who  would  like  to  make  enemies.  But  here,  in  this 
editorial  business,  you  can't  do  otherwise :  and  a  queer, 
sad,  strange,  bitter  thought  it  is,  that  must  cross  the 
mind  of  many  a  public  man :  "Do  what  I  will,  be  in- 


70  BOUND  ABOUT  PAPEBS. 

nocent  or  spiteful,  be  generous  or  cruel,  there  are  A 
and  B,  and  C  and  D,  who  will  hate  me  to  the  end  of 
the  chapter — to  the  chapter's  end — to  the  Finis  of  the 
page — when  hate,  and  envy,  and  fortune,  and  disap- 
pointment shall  be  over." 


ON  SCREENS  IN  DINING-ROOMS. 


71 


ON  SCREENS  IN  DINING-ROOMS, 


GRANDSON      of     the 

late  Eev.  Dr.  Prim- 
rose (of  Wakefield, 
vicar)  wrote  me  a 
ffllSIL  little  note  from  his 
country  living  this 
morning,  and  the 
kind  fellow  had  the 
precaution  to  write 
"  No  thorn"  upon 
the  envelope,  so  that 
ere  I  broke  the  seal 
my  mind  might  be 
relieved  of  any  anx- 
iety lest  the  letter 
should  contain  one 
of  those  lurking 
stabs  which  are  so 
painful  to  the  present  gentle  writer.  Your  epigraph, 
my  dear  P.,  shows  your  kind  and  artless  nature ;  but 
don't  you  see  it  is  of  no  use  ?  People  who  are  bent 
upon  assassinating  you  in  the  manner  mentioned  will 
write  "  No  thorn"  upon  their  envelopes  too ;  and  you 
open  the  case,  and  presently  out  flies  a  poisoned  stilet- 
to, which  springs  into  a  man's  bosom,  and  makes  the 


72  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

wretch  howl  with  anguish.  When  the  bailiffs  are  aft- 
er a  man,  they  adopt  all  sorts  of  disguises,  pop  out  on 
him  from  all  conceivable  corners,  and  tap  his  miser- 
able shoulder.  His  wife  is  taken  ill ;  his  sweet-heart, 
who  remarked  his  brilliant,  too  brilliant  appearance  at 
the  Hyde  Park  review,  will  meet  him  at  Cremorne,  or 
where  you  will.  The  old  friend  who  has  owed  him 
that  money  these  five  years  will  meet  him  at  so-and-so 
and  pay.  By  one  bait  or  other  the  victim  is  hooked, 
netted,  landed,  and  down  goes  the  basket-lid.  It  is 
not  your  wife,  your  sweet-heart,  your  friend,  who  is  go- 
ing to  pay  you ;  it  is  Mr.  Nab  the  bailiff.  You  know 
— you  are  caught.  You  are  off  in  a  cab  to  Chancery 
Lane. 

You  know,  I  say  ?  Why  should  you  know  ?  I 
make  no  manner  of  doubt  you  never  were  taken  by  a 
bailiff  in  your  life.  I  never  was.  I  have  been  in  two 
or  three  debtors'  prisons,  but  not  on  my  own  account. 
Goodness  be  praised !  I  mean  you  can't  escape  your 
lot ;  and  Nab  only  stands  here  metaphorically  as  the 
watchful,  certain,  and  untiring  officer  of  Mr.  Sheriff 
Fate.  Why,  my  dear  Primrose,  this  morning  along 
with  your  letter  comes  another,  bearing  the  well- 
known  superscription  of  another  old  friend,  which  I 
open  without  the  least  suspicion,  and  what  do  I  find  ? 
A  few  lines  from  my  friend  Johnson,  it  is  true,  but 
they  are  written  on  a  page  covered  with  feminine 
handwriting.  "Dear  Mr.  Johnson,"  says  the  writer, 
"  I  have  just  been  perusing  with  delight  a  most  charm- 
ing tale  by  the  Archbishop  of  Cambray.  It  is  called 
Telemaclms ;  and  I  think  it  would  be  admirably  suited 
to  the  Cornhill  Magazine.     As  you  know  the  editor, 


ON   SCKEENS   IN   DINING-ROOMS.  73 

will  you  have  the  great  kindness,  dear  Mr.  Johnson, 
to  communicate  with  him  personally  (as  that  is  much 
better  than  writing  in  a  roundabout  way  to  Cornhill, 
and  waiting  goodness  knows  how  long  for  an  answer), 
and  stating  my  readiness  to  translate  this  excellent 
and  instructive  story.  I  do  not  wish  to  breathe  a 
word  against  Lovel  Parsonage,  Framley  the  Widower, 
or  any  of  the  novels  which  have  appeared  in  the  Corn- 
hill  Magazine,  but  I  am  sure  Telemachus  is  as  good  as 
new  to  English  readers,  and  in  point  of  interest  and 
morality  far"  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

There  it  is.  I  am  stabbed  through  Johnson.  He 
has  lent  himself  to  this  attack  on  me.  He  is  weak 
about  women.  Other  strong  men  are.  He  submits 
to  the  common  lot,  poor  fellow.  In  my  reply  I  do 
not  use  a  word  of  unkindness.  I  write  him  back  gen- 
tly that  I  fear  Telemachus  won't  suit  us.  He  can  send 
the  letter  on  to  his  fair  correspondent.  But,  however 
soft  the  answer,  I  question  whether  the  wrath  will  be 
turned  away.  Will  there  not  be  a  coolness  between 
him  and  the  lady?  and  is  it  not  possible  that  hence- 
forth her  fine  eyes  will  look  with  darkling  glances 
upon  the  pretty  orange  cover  of  our  Magazine  ? 

Certain  writers,  they  say,  have  a  bad  opinion  of 
women.  Now  am  I  very  whimsical  in  supposing  that 
this  disappointed  candidate  will  be  hurt  at  her  rejec- 
tion, and  angry  or  cast  down  according  to  her  na- 
ture ?  "  Angry,  indeed  I"  says  Juno,  gathering  up  her 
purple  robes  and  royal  raiment.  "  Sorry,  indeed !" 
cries  Minerva,  lacing  on  her  corslet  again,  and  scowl- 
ing under  her  helmet.  (I  imagine  the  well-known 
Apple  case  has  just  been  argued  and  decided.)   "  Hurt, 

D 


74  ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS. 

forsooth!  Do  you  suppose  we  care  for  the  opinion 
of  that  hobnailed  lout  of  a  Paris?  Do  you  suppose 
that  I,  the  Goddess  of  Wisdom,  can't  make  allowances 
for  mortal  ignorance,  and  am  so  base  as  to  bear  malice 
against  a  poor  creature  who  knows  no  better?  You 
little  know  the  goddess  Nature  when  you  dare  to  in- 
sinuate that  our  divine  minds  are  actuated  by  motives 
so  base.  A  love  of  justice  influences  us.  We  are 
above  mean  revenge.  We  are  too  magnanimous  to 
be  angry  at  the  award  of  such  a  judge  in  favor  of  such 
a  creature."  And  rustling  out  their  skirts,  the  ladies 
walk  away  together.  This  is  all  very  well.  You 
are  bound  to  believe  them.  They  are  actuated  by  no 
hostility — not  they.  They  bear  no  malice — of  course 
not.  But  when  the  Trojan  war  Occurs  presently, 
which  side  will  they  take?  Many  brave  souls  will 
be  sent  to  Hades.  Hector  will  perish.  Poor  old 
Priam's  bald  numskull  will  be  cracked,  and  Troy 
town  will  burn,  because  Paris  prefers  golden-haired 
Venus  to  ox-eyed  Juno  and  gray-eyed  Minerva. 

The  last  Essay  of  this  Koundabout  Series,  describ- 
ing the  griefs  and  miseries  of  the  editorial  chair,  was 
written,  as  the  kind  reader  will  acknowledge,  in  a 
mild  and  gentle,  not  in  a  warlike  or  satirical  spirit.  I 
showed  how  cudgels  were  applied ;  but,  surely,  the 
meek  object  of  persecution  hit  no  blows  in  return. 
The  beating  did  not  hurt  much,  and  the  person  as- 
saulted could  afford  to  keep  his  good-humor ;  indeed, 
I  admired  that  brave  though  illogical  little  actress,  of 
the  T.  K.  D-bl-n,  for  her  fiery  vindication  of  her  pro- 
fession's honor.  I  assure  her  I  had  no  intention  to 
tell  1 — s — well,  let  us  say,  monosyllables — about  my 


ON   SCREENS   IN   DINING-ROOMS.  75 

superiors;  and  I  wish  her  nothing  but  well,  and  when 
Macmahon  (or  shall  it  be  Mulligan  ?),  Roi  cVIrlande, 
ascends  his  throne,  I  hope  she  may  be  appointed  pro- 
fessor of  English  to  the  princesses  of  the  royal  house. 
Nuper — in  former  days — I  too  have  militated ;  some- 
times, as  I  now  think,  unjustly ;  but  always,  I  vow, 
without  personal  rancor.  Which  of  us  has  not  idle 
words  to  recall,  flippant  jokes  to  regret?  Have  you 
never  committed  an  imprudence?  Have  you  never 
had  a  dispute,  and  found  out  that  you  were  wrong? 
So  much  the  worse  for  you.  "Woe  be  to  the  man  qui 
croit  toujours  avoir  raison.  His  anger  is  not  a  brief 
madness,  but  a  permanent  mania.  His  rage  is  not  a 
fever-fit,  but  a  black  poison  inflaming  him,  distorting 
his  judgment,  disturbing  his  rest,  imbittering  his  cup, 
gnawing  at  his  pleasures,  causing  him  more  cruel  suf- 
fering than  ever  he  can  inflict  on  his  enemy.  0  la 
belle  morale  /  As  I  write  it,  I  think  about  one  or  two 
little  affairs  of  my  own.  There  is  old  Dr.  Squaretoso 
(he  certainly  was  very  rude  to  me,  and  that's  the  fact); 
there  is  Madame  Pomposa  (and  certainly  her  lady- 
ship's behavior  was  about  as  cool  as  cool  could  be). 
Never  mind,  old  Squaretoso;  never  mind,  Madame 
Pomposa;  here  is  a  hand.  Let  us  be  friends,  as  we 
once  were,  and  have  no  more-  of  this  rancor. 

I  had  hardly  sent  that  last  Eoundabout  Paper  to 
the  printer  (which,  I  submit,  was  written  in  a  pacable 
and  not  unchristian  frame  of  mind),  when  Saturday 
came,  and  with  it,  of  course,  my  Saturday  Review.  I 
remember  at  New  York  coming  down  to  breakfast  at 
the  hotel  one  morning,  after  a  criticism  had  appeared 
in  the  New  York  Herald,  in  which  an  Irish  writer  had 


76  ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS. 

given  me  a  dressing  for  a  certain  lecture  on  Swift. 
Ah !  my  dear  little  enemy  of  the  T.  E.  D.,  what  were 
the  cudgels  in  your  little  billet-doux  compared  to  those 
noble  New  York  shillalahs  ?  All  through  the  Union 
the  literary  sons  of  Erin  have  marched  alpeen-stock 
in  hand,  and  in  every  city  of  the  States  they  call  each 
other  and  every  body  else  the  finest  names.  Having 
come  to  breakfast,  then,  in  the  public  room,  I  sit  down, 
and  see — that  the  nine  people  opposite  have  all  got 
New  York  Heralds  in  their  hands.  One  dear  little 
lady,  whom  I  knew,  and  who  sat  opposite,  gave  a 
pretty  blush,  and  popped  her  paper  under  the  table- 
cloth. I  told  her  I  had  had  my  whipping  already  in 
my  own  private  room,  and  begged  her  to  continue  her 
reading.  I  may  have  undergone  agonies,  you  see, 
but  every  man  who  has  been  bred  at  an  English  pub- 
lic school  comes  away  from  a  private  interview  with 
Dr.  Birch  with  a  calm,  even  a  smiling  face.  And  this 
is  not  impossible,  when  you  are  prepared.  You  screw 
your  courage  up — you  go  through  the  business.  You 
come  back  and  take  your  seat  on  the  form,  showing 
not  the  least  symptom  of  uneasiness  or  of  previous 
unpleasantries.  But  to  be  caught  suddenly  up,  and 
whipped  in  the  bosom  of  your  family — to  sit  down  to 
breakfast,  and  cast  your  innocent  eye  on  a  paper,  and 
find,  before  you  are  aware,  that  the  Saturday  Monitor 
or  Black  Monday  Instructor  has  hoisted  you  and  is  lay- 
ing on — that  is  indeed  a  trial.  Or  perhaps  the  fami- 
ly has  looked  at  the  dreadful  paper  beforehand,  and 
weakly  tries  to  hide  it.  "  Where  is  the  Instructor  or 
the  Monitor  F"  say  you.  "  Where  is  that  paper  ?"  says 
mamma  to  one  of  the  young  ladies.     Lucy  hasn't  it. 


ON  SCREENS  IN   DINING-ROOMS.  77 

Fanny  hasn't  seen  it.  Emily  thinks  that  the  govern- 
ess has  it.  At  last,  out  it  is  brought,  that  awful  paper! 
Papa  is  amazingly  tickled  with  the  article  on  Thom- 
son ;  thinks  that  show-up  of  Johnson  is  very  lively ; 
and  now — Heaven  be  good  to  us ! — he  has  come  to 
the  critique  on  himself:  "Of  all  the  rubbish  which 
we  have  had  from  Mr.  Tomkins,  we  do  protest  and 
vow  that  this  last  cart-load  is,"  etc.  Ah !  poor  Tom- 
kins  !  but  most  of  all,  ah !  poor  Mrs.  Tomkins,  and 
poor  Emily,  and  Fanny,  and  Lucy,  who  have  to  sit  by 
and  see  paterfamilias  put  to  the  torture ! 

Now,  on  this  eventful  Saturday,  I  did  not  cry,  be- 
cause it  was  not  so  much  the  editor  as  the  publisher 
of  the  Cornhill  Magazine  who  was  brought  out  for  a 
dressing ;  and  it  is  wonderful  how  gallantly  one  bears 
the  misfortunes  of  one's  friends.  That  a  writer  should 
be  taken  to  task  about  his  books  is  fair,  and  he  must 
abide  the  praise  or  the  censure ;  but  that  a  publisher 
should  be  criticised  for  his  dinners,  and  for  the  conver- 
sation which  did  not  take  place  there — is  this  toler- 
able press  practice,  legitimate  joking,  or  honorable  war- 
fare? I  have  not  the  honor  to  know  my  next-door 
neighbor,  but  I  make  no  doubt  that  he  receives  his 
friends  at  dinner ;  I  see  his  wife  and  children  pass  con- 
stantly ;  I  even  know  the  carriages  of  some  of  the  peo- 
ple who  call  upon  him,  and  could  tell  their  names. 
Now,  suppose  his  servants  were  to  tell  mine  what  the 
doings  are  next  door,  who  comes  to  dinner,  what  is 
eaten  and  said,  and  I  were  to  publish  an  account  of 
these  transactions  in  a  newspaper,  I  could  assuredly 
get  money  for  the  report ;  but  ought  I  to  write  it,  and 
what  would  you  think  of  me  for  doing  so? 


78  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

And  suppose,  Mr.  Saturday  Eeviewer — you  censor 
morum,  you  who  pique  yourself  (and  justly  and  hon- 
orably in  the  main)  upon  your  character  of  gentleman 
as  well  as  of  writer — suppose,  not  that  you  yourself 
invent  and  indite  absurd  twaddle  about  gentlemen's 
private  meetings  and  transactions,  but  pick  this  wretch- 
ed garbage  out  of  a  New  York  street,  and  hold  it  up 
for  your  readers'  amusement — don't  you  think,  my 
friend,  that  you  might  have  been  better  employed  ? 
Here,  in  my  Saturday  Review,  and  in  an  American  pa- 
per subsequently  sent  to  me,  I  light,  astonished,  on  an 
account  of  the  dinners  of  my  friend  and  publisher, 
which  are  described  as  "  tremendously  heavy,"  of  the 
conversation  (which  does  not  take  place),  and  of  the 
guests  assembled  at  the  table.  I  am  informed  that 
the  proprietor  of  the  Cornhill,  and  the  host  on  these 
occasions,  is  "  a  very  good  man,  but  totally  unread ;" 
and  that  on  my  asking  him  whether  Dr.  Johnson  was 
dining  behind  the  screen,  he  said,  "  God  bless  my  soul, 
my  dear  sir,  there's  no  person  by  the  name  of  John- 
son here,  nor  any  one  behind  the  screen,"  and  that  a 
roar  of  laughter  cut  him  short.  I  am  informed  by  the 
same  New  York  correspondent  that  I  have  touched 
up  a  contributor's  article ;  that  I  once  said  to  a  liter- 
ary gentleman,  who  was  proudly  pointing  to  an  anony- 
mous article  as  his  writing,  "Ah!  I  thought  I  recog- 
nized your  hoof  in  it."  I  am  told  by  the  same  author- 
ity that  the  Cornhill  Magazine  "  shows  symptoms  of 
being  on  the  wane,"  and  having  sold  nearly  a  hund- 
red thousand  copies,  he  (the  correspondent)  "should 
think  forty  thousand  was  now  about  the  mark."  Then 
the  graceful  writer  passes  on  to  the  dinners,  at  which 


ON  SCREENS  IN   DINING-ROOMS.  79 

it  appears  the  editor  of  the  Magazine  "  is  the  great  gun, 
and  comes  out  with  all  the  geniality  in  his  power." 

Now  suppose  this  charming  intelligence  is  untrue  ? 
Suppose  the  publisher  (to  recall  the  words  of  my  friend 
the  Dublin  actor  of  last  month)  is  a  gentleman  to  the 
full  as  well  informed  as  those  whom  he  invites  to  his 
table  ?  Suppose  he  never  made  the  remark  beginning 
"  God  bless  my  soul,  my  dear  sir,"  etc.,  nor  any  thing 
resembling  it?  Suppose  nobody  roared  with  laugh- 
ing ?  Suppose  the  editor  of  the  Cornhill  Magazine 
never  "  touched  up"  one  single  line  of  the  contribu- 
tion which  bears  "  marks  of  his  hand  ?"  Suppose  he 
never  said  to  any  literary  gentleman,  "  I  recognized 
your  hoof  in  any  periodical  whatever?  Suppose  the 
40,000  subscribers,  which  the  writer  to  New  York 
"considered  to  be  about  the  mark,"  should  be  be- 
tween 90,000  and  100,000  (and  as  he  will  have  fig- 
ures, there  they  are)  ?  Suppose  this  back-door  gossip 
should  be  utterly  blundering  and  untrue,  would  any 
one  wonder?  Ah  !  if  we  had  only  enjoyed  the  hap- 
piness to  number  this  writer  among  the  contributors 
to  our  Magazine,  what  a  cheerfulness  and  easy  confi- 
dence his  presence  would  impart  to  our  meetings !  He 
would  find  that  "  poor  Mr.  Smith"  had  heard  that  rec- 
ondite anecdote  of  Dr.  Johnson  behind  the  screen  ;  and 
as  for  "the  great  gun  of  those  banquets,"  with  what 
geniality  should  not  I  "  come  out"  if  I  had  an  amiable 
companion  close  by  me,  dotting  down  my  conversation 
for  the  New  York  Times! 

Attack  our  books,  Mr.  Correspondent,  and  welcome. 
They  are  fair  subjects  for  just  censure  or  praise.  But 
woe  be  to  you  if  you  allow  private  rancors  or  animos- 


80  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

ities  to  influence  you  in  the  discharge  of  your  public 
duty.  In  the  little  court  where  you  are  paid  to  sit  as 
judge,  as  critic,  you  owe  it  to  your  employers,  to  your 
conscience,  to  the  honor  of  your  calling,- to  deliver  just 
sentences ;  and  you  shall  have  to  answer  to  Heaven 
for  your  dealings,  as  surely  as  my  lord  chief  justice  on 
the  bench.  The  dignity  of  letters,  the  honor  of  the 
literary  calling,  the  slights  put  by  haughty  and  Un- 
thinking people  upon  literary  men — don't  we  hear 
outcries  upon  these  subjects  raised  daily?  As  dear 
Sam  Johnson  sits  behind  the  screen,  too  proud  to  show 
his  threadbare  coat  and  patches  among  the  more  pros- 
perous brethren  of  his  trade,  there  is  no  want  of  dig- 
nity in  him,  in  that  homely  image  of  labor  ill  reward- 
ed, genius  as  yet  unrecognized,  independence  sturdy 
and  uncomplaining.  But  Mr.  Nameless,  behind  the 
publisher's  screen  uninvited,  peering  at  the  company 
and  the  meal,  catching  up  scraps  of  the  jokes,  and 
noting  down  the  guests'  behavior  and  conversation, 
what  a  figure  his  is  !  Allans,  Mr.  Nameless !  Put  up 
your  note-book,  walk  out  of  the  hall,  and  leave  gen- 
tlemen alone  who  would  be  private,  and  wish  you  no 
harm.  .  .    - . , 


TUNBRIDGE  TOYS. 


81 


TUNBRIDGE   TOYS 


wonder  whether  those  little  silver  pencil-cases 
with  a  movable  almanac  at  the  butt-end  are  still  favor- 
ite implements  with  boys,  and  whether  peddlers  still 
hawk  them  about  the  country?  Are  there  peddlers 
and  hawkers  still,  or  are  rustics  and  children  grown 
too  sharp  to  deal  with  them  ?  Those  pencil-cases,  as 
far  as  my  memory  serves  me,  were  not  of  much  use. 
The  screw,  upon  which  the  movable  almanac  turned, 

D2 


82  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

was  constantly  getting  loose.  The  1  of  the  table  would 
work  from  its  moorings,  under  Tuesday  or  Wednes- 
day, as  the  case  might  be,  and  you  would  find,  on  ex- 
amination, that  Th.  or  W.  was  the  23J  of  the  month 
(which  was  absurd  on  the  face  of  the  thing),  and  in  a 
word  your  cherished  pencil-case  an  utterly  unreliable 
time-keeper.  Nor  was  this  a  matter  of  wonder.  Con- 
sider the  position  of  a  pencil-case  in  a  boy's  pocket. 
You  had  hard-bake  in  it ;  marbles,  kept  in  your  purse 
when  the  money  was  all  gone ;  your  mother's  purse 
knitted  so  fondly  and  supplied  with  a  little  bit  of  gold, 
long  since — prodigal  little  son! — scattered  among  the 
swine — I  mean  among  brandy-balls,  open  tarts,  three- 
cornered  puffs,  and  similar  abominations.  You  had  a 
top  and  string ;  a  knife ;  a  piece  of  cobbler's  wax ; 
two  or  three  bullets ;  a  Little  Warbler ;  and  I,  for  my 
part,  remember,  for  a  considerable  period,  a  brass-bar- 
reled pocket-pistol  (which  would  fire  beautifully,  for 
with  it  I  shot  off  a  button  from  Butt  Major's  jacket) ; 
with  all  these  things,  and  ever  so  many  more,  clink- 
ing and  rattling  in  your  pockets,  and  your  hands,  of 
course,  keeping  them  in  perpetual  movement,  how 
could  you  expect  your  movable  almanac  not  to  be 
twisted  out  of  its  place  now  and  again — your  pencil- 
case  to  be  bent — your  licorice  water  not  to  leak  out 
of  your  bottle  over  the  cobbler's  wax — your  bull's- 
eyes  not  to  ram  up  the  lock  and  barrel  of  your  pistol, 
and  so  forth. 

In  the  month  of  June,  thirty-seven  years  ago,  I 
bought  one  of  those  pencil-cases  from  a  boy  whom  I 
shall  call  Hawker,  and  who  was  in  my  form.  Is  he 
dead?     Is  he  a  millionaire?     Is  he  a  bankrupt  now ? 


TUNBRIDGE  TOYS.  83 

He  was  an  immense  screw  at  school,  and  I  believe  to 
this  day  that  the  value  of  the  thing  for  which  I  owed 
and  eventually  paid  three  and  sixpence  was  in  reality 
not  one  and  nine. 

I  certainly  enjoyed  the  case  at  first  a  good  deal,  and 
amused  myself  with  twiddling  round  the  movable  cal- 
endar. But  this  pleasure  wore  off.  The  jewel,  as  I 
said,  was  not  paid  for,  and  Hawker,  a  large  and  vio- 
lent boy,  was  exceedingly  unpleasant  as  a  creditor. 
His  constant  remark  was,  "  When  are  you  going  to 
pay  me  that  three  and  sixpence  ?  What  sneaks  your 
relations  must  be  !  They  come  to  see  you.  You  go 
out  to  them  on  Saturdays  and  Sundays,  and  they  nev- 
er give  you  any  thing !  Don't  tell  Tne,  you  little  hum- 
bug!" and  so  forth.  The  truth  is,  that  my  relations 
were  respectable ;  but  my  parents  were  making  a  tour 
in  Scotland ;  and  my  friends  in  London,  whom  I  used 
to  go  and  see,  were  most  kind  to  me,  certainly,  but 
somehow  never  tipped  me.  That  term,  of  May  to 
August,  1823,  passed  in  agonies  then,  in  consequence 
of  my  debt  to  Hawker.  What  was  the  pleasure  of  a 
calendar  pencil-case  in  comparison  with  the  doubt  and 
torture  of  mind  occasioned  by  the  sense  of  the  debt, 
and  the  constant  reproach  in  that  fellow's  scowling 
eyes,  and  gloomy,  coarse  reminders  ?  How  was  I  to 
pay  off  such  a  debt  out  of  sixpence  a  week?  Ludic- 
rous !  Why  did  not  some  one  come  to  see  me,  and 
tip  me?  Ah!  my  dear  sir,  if  you  have  any  little 
friends  at  school,  go  and  see  them,  and  do  the  natural 
thing  by  them.  You  won't  miss  the  sovereign.  You 
don't  know  what  a  blessing  it  will  be  to  them.  Don't 
fancy  they  are  too  old — try  'em.     And  they  will  re- 


84  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

member  you,  and  bless  you  in  future  days  ;  and  their 
gratitude  shall  accompany  your  dreary  after-life ;  and 
they  shall  meet  you  kindly  when  thanks  for  kindness 
are  scant.  Oh  mercy !  shall  I  ever  forget  that  sover- 
eign you  gave  me,  Captain  Bob  ?  or  the  agonies  of  be- 
ing in  debt  to  Hawker?  In  that  very  term,  a  rela- 
tion of  mine  was  going  to  India.  I  actually  was 
fetched  from  school  in  order  to  take  leave  of  him.  I 
am  afraid  I  told  Hawker  of  this  circumstance.  I  own 
I  speculated  upon  my  friend's  giving  me  a  pound. 
A  pound?  Pooh!  A  relation  going  to  India,  and 
deeply  affected  at  parting  from  his  darling  kinsman, 
might  give  five  pounds  to  the  dear  fellow  !  .  .  .  . 
There  was  Hawker  when  I  came  back — of  course 
there  he  was.  As  he  looked  in  my  scared  face,  his 
turned  livid  with  rage.  He  muttered  curses,  terrible 
from  the  lips  of  so  young  a  boy.  My  relation,  about 
to  cross  the  ocean  to  fill  a  lucrative  appointment, 
asked  me  with  much  interest  about  my  progress  at 
school,  heard  me  construe  a  passage  of  Eutropius,  the 
pleasing  Latin  work  on  which  I  was  then  engaged ; 
gave  me  a  God  bless  you,  and  sent  me  back  to  school ; 
upon  my  word  of  honor,  without  so  much  as  a  half 
crown !  It  is  all  very  well,  my  dear  sir,  to  say  that 
boys  contract  habits  of  expecting  tips  from  their  par- 
ents' friends,  that  they  become  avaricious,  and  so  forth. 
Avaricious !  fudge !  Boys  contract  habits  of  tart  and 
toffy  eating,  which  they  do  not  carry  into  after-life. 
On  the  contrary,  I  wish  I  did  like  'em.  What  rap- 
tures of  pleasure  one  could  have  now  for  five  shillings, 
if  one  could  but  pick  it  off  the  pastry-cook's  tray! 
No.     If  you  have  any  little  friends  at  school,  out  with 


TUNBRIDGE  TOYS.  85 

your  half  crowns,  my  friend,  and  impart  to  those  lit- 
tle ones  the  little  fleeting  joys  of  their  age. 

Well,  then.  At  the  beginning  of  August,  1823, 
Bartlemy-tide  holidays  came,  and  I  was  to  go  to  my 
parents,  who  were  at  Tunbridge  Wells.  My  place  in 
the  coach  was  taken  by  my  tutor's  servants — Bolt-in- 
Tun,  Fleet  Street,  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  was 

the   word.     My  tutor,  the  Rev.  Edward  P ,  to 

whom  I  hereby  present  my  best  compliments,  had  a 
parting  interview  with  me ;  gave  me  my  little  account 
for  my  governor;  the  remaining  part  of  the  coach- 
hire  ;  five  shillings  for  my  own  expenses ;  and  some 
five-and-twenty  shillings  on  an  old  account  which  had 
been  overpaid,  and  was  to  be  restored  to  my  family. 

Away  I  ran  and  paid  Hawker  his  three  and  six. 
Ouf!  what  a  weight  it  was  off  my  mind!  (He  was  a 
Norfolk  boy,  and  used  to  go  home  from  Mrs.  Nelson's 
Bell  Inn,  Aldgate ;  but  that  is  not  to  the  point.)  The 
next  morning,  of  course,  we  were  an  hour  before  the 
time.  I  and  another  boy  shared  a  hackney-coach — 
two  and  six :  porter  for  putting  luggage  on  coach, 
threepence.  I  had  no  more  money  of  my  own  left. 
Rasherwell,  my  companion,  went  into  the  Bolt-in-Tun 
coffee-room,  and  had  a  good  breakfast.  I  couldn't; 
because,  though  I  had  five-and-twenty  shillings  of  my 
parents'  money,  I  had  none  of  my  own,  you  see. 

I  certainly  intended  to  go  without  breakfast,  and 
still  remember  how  strongly  I  had  that  resolution  in 
my  mind.  But  there  was  that  hour  to  wait.  A  beau- 
tiful August  morning — I  am  very  hungry.  There  is 
Rasherwell  "tucking"  away  in  the  coffee-room.  I 
pace  the  street,  as  sadly  almost  as  if  I  had  been  com- 


86  ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS. 

ing  to  school,  not  going  thence.  I  turn  into  a  court 
by  mere  chance — I  vow  it  was  by  mere  chance* — and 
there  I  see  a  coffee-shop  with  a  placard  in  the  window, 
Coffee,  twopence  ;  round  of  buttered  toast,  twopence.  And 
here  am  I  hungry,  penniless,  with  flve-and- twenty  shil- 
lings of  my  parents7  money  in  my  pocket. 

What  would  you  have  done  ?  You  see  I  had  had 
my  money,  and  spent  it  in  that  pencil-case  affair. 
The  flve-and-twenty  shillings  were  a  trust,  by  me  to 
be  handed  over. 

But  then  would  my  parents  wish  their  only  child  to 
be  actually  without  breakfast  ?  Having  this  money, 
and  being  so  hungry,  so  very  hungry,  mightn't  I  take 
ever  so  little  ?  Mightn't  I  at  home  eat  as  much  as  I 
chose  ? 

Well,  I  went  into  the  coffee-shop,  and  spent  four- 
pence.  I  remember  the  taste  of  the  coffee  and  toast 
to  this  day — a  peculiar,  muddy,  not-sweet-enough, 
most  fragrant  coffee — a  rich,  rancid,  yet  not-buttered- 
enough,  delicious  toast.  The  waiter  had  nothing.  At 
any  rate,  fourpence  I  know  was  the  sum  I  spent.  And 
the  hunger  appeased,  I  got  on  the  coach  a  guilty  being. 

At  the  last  stage — what  is  its  name?  I  have  for- 
gotten in  seven-and-thirty  years — there  is  an  inn  with 
a  little  green  and  trees  before  it,  and  by  the  trees 
there  is  an  open  carriage.  It  is  our  carriage.  Yes, 
there  are  Prince  and  Blucher,  the  horses,  and  my  par- 
ents in  the  carriage.  Oh !  how  I  had  been  counting 
the  days  until  this  one  came !  Oh !  how  happy  had 
I  been  to  see  them  yesterday !  But  there  was  that 
fourpence.  All  the  journey  down  the  toast  had 
choked  me,  and  the  coffee  poisoned  me. 


TUNBRIDGE   TOYS.  87 

I  was  in  such  a  state  of  remorse  about  the  four- 
pence  that  I  forgot  the  maternal  joy  and  caresses,  the 
tender  paternal  voice.  I  pull  out  the  twenty-four 
shillings  and  eightpence  with  a  trembling  hand. 

"Here's  your   money,"  I  gasp  out,  "which  Mr. 

P owes  you,  all  but  fourpence.     I  owed  three 

and  sixpence  to  Hawker  out  of  my  money  for  a  pen- 
cil-case, and  I  had  none  left,  and  I  took  fourpence  of 
yours,  and  had  some  coffee  at  a  shop." 

I  suppose  I  must  have  been  choking  while  uttering 
this  confession. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  says  the  governor,  "  why  didn't  you 
go  and  breakfast  at  the  hotel  ?" 

•u  He  must  be  starved,"  says  my  mother. 
.  I  had  confessed ;  I  had  been  a  prodigal ;  I  had  been 
taken  back  to  my  parents'  arms  again.  It  was  not  a 
very  great  crime  as  yet,  or  a  very  long  career  of 
prodigality ;  but  don't  we  know  that  a  boy  who  takes 
a  pin  which  is  not  his  own  will  take  a  thousand  pounds 
when  occasion  serves,  bring  his  parents'  gray  heads 
with  sorrow  to  the  grave,  and  carry  his  own  to  the 
gallows?  Witness  the  career  of  Dick  Idle,  upon 
whom  our  friend  Mr.  Sala  has  been  discoursing.  Dick 
only  began  by  playing  pitch -and-toss  on  a  tombstone; 
playing  fair,  for  what  we  know;  and  even  for  that 
sin  he  was  promptly  caned  by  the  beadle.  The  bam- 
boo was  ineffectual  to  cane  that  reprobate's  bad  courses 
out  of  him.  From  pitch-and-toss  he  proceeded  to 
manslaughter  if  necessary ;  to  highway  robbery ;  to 
Tyburn  and  the  rope  there.  Ah !  Heaven  be  thanked, 
my  parents'  heads  are  still  above  the  grass,  and  mine 
still  out  of  the  noose. 


88  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

As  I  look  up  from  my  desk,  I  see  Tunbridge  Wells 
Common  and  the  rocks,  the  strange  familiar  place 
which  I  remember  forty  years  ago.  Boys  saunter 
over  the  green  with  stumps  and  cricket-bats.  Other 
boys  gallop  by  on  the  riding-master's  hacks.  I  pro- 
test it  is  Cramp,  Riding  Master,  as  it  used  to  be  in  the 
reign  of  George  IV.,  and  that  Centaur  Cramp  must  be 
at  least  a  hundred  years  old.  Yonder  comes  a  foot- 
man with  a  bundle  of  novels  from  the  library.  Are 
they  as  good  as  our  novels?  Oh!  how  delightful 
they  were!  Shades  of  Yalancour,  awful  ghost  of 
Manfroni,  how  I  shudder  at  your  appearance !  Sweet 
image  of  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw,  how  often  has  this  al- 
most infantile  hand  tried  to  depict  you  in  a  Polish 
cap  and  richly  embroidered  tights !  And  as  for  Co- 
rinthian Tom  in  light-blue  pantaloons  and  Hessians, 
and  Jerry  Hawthorn  from  the  country,  can  all  the 
fashion,  can  all  the  splendor  of  real  life  which  these 
eyes  have  subsequently  beheld,  can  all  the  wit  I  have 
heard  or  read  in  later  times,  compare  with  your  fash- 
ion, with  your  brilliancy,  with  your  delightful  grace, 
and  sparkling  vivacious  rattle  ? 

Who  knows?  They  may  have  kept  those  very 
books  at  the  library  still — at  the  well-remembered 
library  on  the  Pantiles,  where  they  sell  that  delight- 
ful, useful  Tunbridge  ware.  I  will  go  and  see.  I 
went  my  way  to  the  Pantiles,  the  queer  little  old- 
world  Pantiles,  where,  a  hundred  years  since,  so  much 
good  company  came  to  take  its  pleasure.  Is  it  possi- 
ble that  in  the  past  century  gentlefolks  of  the  first 
rank  (as  I  read  lately  in  a  lecture  on  George  II.  in  the 
Cornliill  Magazine)  assembled  here   and  entertained 


TUNBRIDGE  TOYS.  89 

each  other  with  gaming,  dancing,  fiddling,  and  tea? 
There  are  fiddlers,  harpers,  and  trumpeters  perform- 
ing at  this  moment  in  a  weak  little  old  balcony,  but 
where  is  the  fine  company?  Where  are  the  earls, 
duchesses,  bishops,  and  magnificent  embroidered  game- 
sters ?  A  half  dozen  of  children  and  their  nurses  are 
listening  to  the  musicians ;  an  old  lady  or  two  in  a 
poke  bonnet  passes,  and  for  the  rest,  I  see  but  an  un- 
interesting population  of  native  tradesmen.  As  for 
the  library,  its  window  is  full  of  pictures  of  burly 
theologians,  and  their  works,  sermons,  apologues,  and 
so  forth.  Can  I  go  in  and  ask  the  young  ladies  at 
the  counter  for  Manfroni,  or  the  One- Handed  Monk,  and 
Life  in  London,  or  the  Adventures  of  Corinthian  Tom, 
Jeremiah  Haivthorn,  Esq.,  and  their  friend  Bob  Logic  f 
Absurd.  I  turn  away  abashed  from  the  casement — 
from  the  Pantiles — no  longer  Pantiles,  but  Parade.  I 
stroll  over  the  Common,  and  survey  the  beautiful 
purple  hills  around,  twinkling  with  a  thousand  bright 
villas,  which  have  sprung  up  over  this  charming 
ground  since  first  I  saw  it.  What  an  admirable  scene 
of  peace  and  plenty!  What  a  delicious  air  breathes 
over  the  heath,  blows  the  cloud  shadows  across  it,  and 
murmurs  through  the  full-clad  trees !  Can  the  world 
show  a  land  fairer,  richer,  more  cheerful?  I  see  a 
portion  of  it  when  I  look  up  from  the  window  at 
which  I  write.  But  fair  scene,  green  woods,  bright 
terraces  gleaming  in  sunshine,  and  purple  clouds  swoll- 
en with  summer  rain — nay,  the  very  pages  over  which 
my  head  bends,  disappear  from  before  my  eyes.  They 
are  looking  backward — back  into  forty  years  off,  into 
a  dark  room,  into  a  little  house  hard  by  on  the  Com- 


90  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

mon  here,  in  the  Bartlemy-tide  holidays.  The  par- 
ents have  gone  to  town  for  two  days ;  the  house  is  all 
his  own — his  own  and  a  grim  old  maid-servant's,  and 
a  little  boy  is  seated  at  night  in  the  lonely  drawing- 
room,  poring  over  Manfrom,  or  the  One-Handed  Monk, 
so  frightened  that  he  scarcely  dares  to  turn  round. 


DE   JUVENTUTE. 


01 


DE    JUVENTUTE. 


UR  last  Paper  of  this  vera- 
cious and  roundabout  series 
related  to  a  period  which 
can  only  be  historical  to  a 
great  number  of  readers  of 
this  Magazine.  Four  I  saw 
at  the  station  to-day  with 
orange  -  covered  books  in 
their  hands,  who  can  but 
have  known  George  IV.  by 
books,  and  statues,  and  pictures.  Elderly  gentlemen 
were  in  their  prime,  old  men  in  their  middle  age,  when 
he  reigned  over  us.  His  image  remains  on  coins ;  on 
a  picture  or  two  hanging  here  and  there  in  a  Club  or 
old-fashioned  dining-room  ;  on  horseback,  as  at  Trafal- 
gar Square,  for  example,  where  I  defy  any  monarch  to 
look  more  uncomfortable.  He  turns  up  in  sundry 
memoirs  and  histories  which  have  been  published  of 
late  days ;  in  Mr.  Massey's  History ;  in  the  Bucking- 
ham and  Grenville  Correspondence;  and  gentlemen 
who  have  accused  a  certain  writer  of  disloyalty  are  re- 
ferred to  those  volumes  to  see  whether  the  picture 
drawn  of  George  is  overcharged.  Charon  has  paddled 
him  off;  he  has  mingled  with  the  crowded  republic 
of  the  dead.     His  efUgy  smiles  from  a  canvas  or  two. 


92  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

Breechless  lie  bestrides  his  steed  in  Trafalgar  Square. 
I  believe  he  still  wears  his  robes  at  Madame  Tussaud's 
(Madame  herself  having  quitted  Baker  Street  and  life, 
and  found  him  she  modeled  t'other  side  the  Stygian 
stream).  On  the  head  of  a  five-shilling  piece  we  still 
occasionally  come  upon  him,  with  St.  George,  the  drag- 
on-slayer, on  the  other  side  of  the  coin.  Ah  me  !  did 
this  George  slay  many  dragons?  Was  he  a  brave, 
heroic  champion,  and  rescuer  of  virgins  ?  "Well !  well ! 
have  you  and  I  overcome  all  the  dragons  that  assail 
us  f  come  alive  and  victorious  out  of  all  the  caverns 
which  we  have  entered  in  life,  and  succored,  at  risk 
of  life  and  limb,  all  poor  distressed  persons  in  whose 
naked  limbs  the  dragon  Poverty  is  about  to  fasten  his 
fangs,  whom  the  dragon  Crime  is  poisoning  with  his 
horrible  breath,  and  about  to  crunch  up  and  devour  ? 
Oh  my  royal  liege !  Oh  my  gracious  prince  and  war- 
rior !  You  a  champion  to  fight  that  monster  ?  Your 
feeble  spear  ever  pierce  that  slimy  paunch  or  plated 
back  ?  See  how  the  flames  come  gurgling  out  of  his 
red-hot  brazen  throat!  What  a  roar!  Nearer  and 
nearer  he  trails,  with  eyes  flaming  like  the  lamps  of  a 
railroad  engine.  How  he  squeals,  rushing  out  through 
the  darkness  of  his  tunnel !  Now  he  is  near.  Now 
he  is  here.  And  now — what  ? — lance,  shield,  knight, 
feathers,  horse  and  all?  Oh  horror,  horror!  Next 
day,  round  the  monster's  cave,  there  lie  a  few  bones 
more.  You,  who  wish  to  keep  yours  in  your  skins, 
be  thankful  that  you  are  not  called  upon  to  go  out 
and  fight  dragons.  Be  grateful  that  they  don't  sally 
out  and  swallow  you.  Keep  a  wise  distance  from  their 
caves,  lest  you  pay  too  dearly  for  approaching  them. 


DE  JUVENTUTE.  93 

Remember  that  years  passed,  and  whole  districts  were 
ravaged,  before  the  warrior  came  who  was  able  to  cope 
with  the  devouring  monster.  When  that  knight  does 
make  his  appearance,  with  all  my  heart  let  us  go  out 
and  welcome  him  with  our  best  songs,  hurrahs,  and  lau- 
rel wreaths,  and  eagerly  recognize  his  valor  and  vic- 
tory. But  he  comes  only  seldom.  Countless  knights 
were  slain  before  St.  George  won  the  battle.  In  the 
battle  of  life  are  we  all  going  to  try  for  the  honors  of 
championship  ?  If  we  can  do  our  duty,  if  we  can  keep 
our  place  pretty  honorably  through  the  combat,  let  us 
say  Laics  Deo  !  at  the  end  of  it,  as  the  firing  ceases,  and 
the  night  falls  over  the  field. 

The  old  were  middle-aged,  the  elderly  were  in  their 
prime,  then,  thirty  years  since,  when  yon  royal  George 
was  still  fighting  the  dragon.  As  for  you,  my  pretty 
lass,  with  your  saucy  hat  and  golden  tresses  tumbled 
in  your  net,  and  you,  my  spruce  young  gentleman  in 
your  mandarin's  cap  (the  young  folks  at  the  country- 
place  where  I  am  staying  are  so  attired),  your  parents 
were  unknown  to  each  other,  and  wore  short  frocks 
and  short  jackets  at  the  date  of  this  five-shilling  piece. 
Only  to-day  I  met  a  dog-cart  crammed  with  children 
— children  with  mustaches  and  mandarin  caps — chil- 
dren with  saucy  hats  and  hair-nets — children  in  short 
frocks  and  knickerbockers  (surely  the  prettiest  boy's 
dress  that  has  appeared  these  hundred  years) — chil- 
dren from  twenty  years  of  age  to  six ;  and  father,  with 
mother  by  his  side,  driving  in  front — and  on  father's 
countenance  I  saw  that  very  laugh  which  I  remember 
perfectly  in  the  time  when  this  crown  piece  was  coin- 
ed— in  his  time,  in  King  George's  time,  when  we  were 


94  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

school-boys  seated  on  the  same  form.  The  smile  was 
just  as  broad,  as  bright,  as  jolly,  as  I  remember  it  in 
the  past — unforgotten,  though  not  seen  or  thought  of, 
for  how  many  decades  of  years,  and  quite  and  instant- 
ly familiar,  though  so  long  out  of  sight. 

Any  contemporary  of  that  coin  who  takes  it  up  and 
reads  the  inscription  round  the  laureled  head,  "Geor- 
gius  IV.  Britanniarum  Eex.  Fid.  Def.  1823,"  if  he  will 
but  look  steadily  enough  at  the  round,  and  utter  the 
proper  incantation,  I  dare  say  may  conjure  back  his 
life  there.  Look  well,  my  elderly  friend,  and  tell  me 
what  you  see  ?  First,  I  see  a  sultan,  with  hair,  beau- 
tiful hair,  and  a  crown  of  laurels  round  his  head,  and 
his  name  is  Georgius  Eex.  Fid.  Def,  and  so  on.  Now 
the  sultan  has  disappeared ;  and  what  is  that  I  see  ? 
A  boy — a  boy  in  a  jacket.  He  is  at  a  desk;  he  has 
great  books  before  him — Latin  and  Greek  books  and 
dictionaries.  Yes,  but  behind  the  great  books,  which 
he  pretends  to  read,  is  a  little  one,  with  pictures,  which 
he  is  really  reading.  It  is — yes,  I  can  read  now — it  is 
the  Heart  of  Mid  Lothian,  by  the  author  of  Waverley 
— or,  no,  it  is  Life  in  London,  or  the  Adventures  of  Co- 
rinthian Tom,  Jeremiah  Hawthorn,  and  their  friend  Bob 
Logic,  by  Pierce  Egan  ;  and  it  has  pictures — oh !  such 
funny  pictures !  As  he  reads,  there  comes  behind  the 
boy  a  man,  a  dervish,  in  a  black  gown,  like  a  woman, 
and  a  black  square  cap,  and  he  has  a  book  in  each 
hand,  and  he  seizes  the  boy  who  is  reading  the  pic- 
ture-book, and  lays  his  head  upon  one  of  his  books, 
and  smacks  it  with  the  other.  The  boy  makes  faces, 
and  so  that  picture  disappears. 

Now  the  boy  has  grown  bigger.     He  has  got  on  a 


DE   JUVENTUTE.  95 

black  gown  and  cap,  something  like  the  dervish.  He 
is  at  a  table,  with  ever  so  many  bottles  on  it,  and  fruit, 
and  tobacco;  and  other  young  dervishes  come  in. 
They  seem  as  if  they  were  singing.  To  them  enters 
an  old  moollah ;  he  takes  down  their  names,  and  or- 
ders them  all  to  go  to  bed.  What  is  this  ?  a  carriage, 
with  four  beautiful  horses  all  galloping ;  a  man  in  red 
is  blowing  a  trumpet.  Many  young  men  are  on  the 
carriage ;  one  of  them  is  driving  the  horses.  Surely 
they  won't  drive  into  that — ah !  they  have  all  disap- 
peared ?  And  now  I  see  one  of  the  young  men  alone. 
He  is  walking  in  a  street — a  dark  street ;  presently  a 
light  comes  to  a  window.  There  is  the  shadow  of  a 
lady  who  passes.  He  stands  there  till  the  light  goes 
out.  Now  he  is  in  a  room  scribbling  on  a  piece  of 
paper,  and  kissing  a  miniature  every  now  and  then. 
They  seem  to  be  lines  each  pretty  much  of  a  length. 
I  can  read  heart,  smart,  dart ;  Mary,  fairy  ;  Cupid,  stu- 
pid; true,  you;  and  never  mind  what  more.  Bah! 
it  is  bosh.  Now  see,  he  has  got  a  gown  on  again,  and 
a  wig  of  white  hair  on  his  head,  and  he  is  sitting  with 
other  dervishes  in  a  great  room  full  of  them,  and  on  a 
throne  in  the  middle  is  an  old  sultan  in  scarlet,  sitting 
before  a  desk,  and  he  wears  a  wig  too ;  and  the  young 
man  gets  up  and  speaks  to  him.  And  now  what  is 
here  ?  He  is  in  a  room  with  ever  so  many  children, 
and  the  miniature  hanging  up.  Can  it  be  a  likeness 
of  that  woman  who  is  sitting  before  that  copper  urn, 
with  a  silver  vase  in  her  hand,  from  which  she  is  pour- 
ing hot  liquor  into  cups  ?  Was  she  ever  a  fairy  ?  She 
is  as  fat  as  a  hippopotamus  now.  He  is  sitting  on  a 
divan  by  the  fire.    He  has  a  paper  on  his  knees.    Read 


96  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

the  name  of  the  paper.  It  is  the  Superfine  Review.  It 
inclines  to  think  that  Mr.  Dickens  is  not  a  true  gentle- 
man, that  Mr.  Thackeray  is  not  a  true  gentleman,  and 
that  when  the  one  is  pert  and  the  other  is  arch,  we, 
the  gentlemen  of  the  Superfine  Review,  think,  and  think 
rightly,  that  we  have  some  cause  to  be  indignant.  The 
great  cause  why  modern  humor  and  modern  senti- 
mentalism  repel  us  is  that  they  are  unwarrantably  fa- 
miliar. Now,  Mr.  Sterne,  the  Superfine  Revieiver  thinks, 
"was  a  true  sentimentalist,  because  he  was  above  all 
things  a  true  gentleman."  The  flattering  influence  is 
obvious :  let  us  be  thankful  for  having  an  elegant  mor- 
alist watching  over  us,  and  learn,  if  not  too  old,  to  im- 
itate his  high-bred  politeness  and  catch  his  unobtru- 
sive grace.  If  we  are  unwarrantably  familiar,  we  know 
who  is  not.  If  we  repel  by  pertness,  we  know  who 
never  does.  If  our  language  offends,  we  know  whose 
is  always  modest.  Oh  pity !  The  vision  has  disap- 
peared off  the  silver,  the  images  of  youth  and  the  past 
are  vanishing  away !  We,  who  have  lived  before  rail- 
ways were  made,  belong  to  another  world.  In  how 
many  hours  could  the  Prince  of  Wales  drive  from 
Brighton  to  London  with  a  light  carriage  built  ex- 
pressly, and  relays  of  horses  longing  to  gallop  the  next 
stage  ?  Do  you  remember  Sir  Somebody,  the  coach- 
man of  the  Age,  who  took  our  half  crown  so  affably  ? 
It  was  only  yesterday ;  but  what  a  gulf  between  now 
and  then  ?  Then  was  the  old  world.  Stage-coaches, 
more  or  less  swift,  riding-horses,  pack-horses,  highway- 
men, knights  in  armor,  Norman  invaders,  Eoman  le- 
gions, Druids,  Ancient  Britons,  painted  blue,  and  so 
forth — all  these  belong  to  the  old  period.     I  will  con- 


DE  JUVENTUTE.  97 

cede  a  halt  in  the  midst  of  it,  and  allow  that  gunpow- 
der and  printing  tended  to  modernize  the  world.  But 
your  railroad  starts  the  new  era,  and  we  of  a  certain 
age  belong  to  the  new  time  and  the  old  one.  We  are 
of  the  time  of  chivalry  as  well  as  the  Black  Prince  or 
Sir  Walter  Manny.  We  are  of  the  age  of  steam.  We 
have  stepped  out  of  the  old  world  on  to  Brunei's  vast 
deck,  and  across  the  waters  ingeiis  patet  tellus.  Toward 
what  new  continent  are  we  wending?  to  what  new 
laws,  new  manners,  new  politics,  vast  new  expanses 
of  liberties  unknown  as  yet,  or  only  surmised  ?  I  used 
to  know  a  man  who  had  invented  a  flying-machine. 
"Sir,"  he  would  say,  "give  me  but  five  hundred 
pounds,  and  I  will  make  it.  It  is  so  simple  of  con- 
struction that  I  tremble  daily  lest  some  other  person 
should  light  upon  and  patent  my  discovery."  Per- 
haps faith  was  wanting;  perhaps  the  five  hundred 
pounds.  He  is  dead,  and  somebody  else  must  make 
the  flying-machine.  But  that  will  only  be  a  step  for- 
ward on  the  journey  already  begun  since  we  quitted 
the  old  world.  There  it  lies  on  the  other  side  of  yon- 
der embankments.  You  young  folks  have  never  seen 
it ;  and  Waterloo  is  to  you  no  more  than  Agincourt, 
and  George  IY.  than  Sardanapalus.  We  elderly  peo- 
ple have  lived  in  that  prserailroad  world,  which  has 
passed  into  limbo  and  vanished  from  under  us.  I  tell 
you  it  was  firm  under  our  feet  once,  and  not  long  ago. 
They  have  raised  those  railroad  embankments  up,  and 
shut  off  the  old  world  that  was  behind  them.  Climb 
up  that  bank  on  which  the  irons  are  laid,  and  look  to 
the  other  side — it  is  gone.  There  is  no  other  side. 
Try  and  catch  yesterday.     Where  is  it?     Here  is  a 

E 


98  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

Times  newspaper,  dated  Monday,  26th,  and  this  is  Tues- 
day, 27th.  Suppose  you  deny  there  was  such  a  day 
as  yesterday  ? 

We  who  lived  before  railways,  and  survive  out  of 
the  ancient  world,  are  like  Father  Noah  and  his  family 
out  of  the  Ark.  The  children  will  gather  round  and 
say  to  us  patriarchs,  "  Tell  us,  grandpapa,  about  the 
old  world."  And  we  shall  mumble  our  old  stories; 
and  we  shall  drop  off  one  by  one;  and  there  will  be 
fewer  and  fewer  of  us,  and  these  very  old  and  feeble. 
There  will  be  but  ten  praerailroadites  left ;  then  three ; 
then  two ;  then  one ;  then  0 !  If  the  hippopotamus 
had  the  least  sensibility  (of  which  I  can  not  trace  any 
signs  either  in  his  hide  or  his  face),  I  think  he  would 
go  down  to  the  bottom  of  his  tank,  and  never  come 
up  again.  Does  he  not  see  that  he  belongs  to  by-gone 
ages,  and  that  his  great  hulking  barrel  of  a  body  is  out 
of  place  in  these  times?  What  has  he  in  common 
with  the  brisk  young  life  surrounding  him  ?  In  the 
watches  of  the  night,  when  the  keepers  are  asleep, 
when  the  birds  are  on  one  leg,  when  even  the  little 
armadillo  is  quiet,  and  the  monkeys  have  ceased  their 
chatter — he,  I  mean  the  hippopotamus,  and  the  ele- 
phant, and  the  long-necked  giraffe,  perhaps  may  lay 
their  heads  together  and  have  a  colloquy  about  the 
great  silent  antediluvian  world  which  they  remember, 
where  mighty  monsters  floundered  through  the  ooze, 
crocodiles  basked  on  the  banks,  and  dragons  darted 
out  of  the  caves  and  waters  before  men  were  made  to 
slay  them.  We  who  lived  before  railways  are  ante- 
diluvians; we  must  pass  away.  We  are  growing 
scarcer  every  day;   and  old  —  old  —  very  old  relicts 


DE   JUVENTUTE.  99 

of  the  times  when  George  was  still  fighting  the 
Dragon. 

Not  long  since  a  company  of  horse-riders  paid  a 
vist  to  our  watering-place.  We  went  to  see  them,  and 
I  bethought  me  that  young  Walter  Juvenis,  who  was 
in  the  place,  might  like  also  to  witness  the  perform- 
ance. A  pantomime  is  not  always  amusing  to  persons 
who  have  attained  a  certain  age ;  but  a  boy  at  a  pan- 
tomime is  always  amused  and  amusing,  and  to  see  his 
pleasure  is  good  for  most  hypochondriacs. 

We  sent  to  Walter's  mother,  requesting  that  he 
might  join  us,  and  the  kind  lady  replied  that  the  boy 
had  already  been  at  the  morning  performance  of  the 
equestrians,  but  was  most  eager  to  go  in  the  evening 
likewise.  And  go  he  did;  and  laughed  at  all  Mr. 
Merryman's  remarks,  though  he  remembered  them 
with  remarkable  accuracy,  and  insisted  upon  waiting 
to  the  very  end  of  the  fun,  and  was  only  induced  to 
retire  just  before  its  conclusion  by  representations  that 
the  ladies  of  the  party  would  be  incommoded  if  they 
were  to  wait  and  undergo  the  rush  and  trample  of  the 
crowd  round  about.  When  this  fact  was  pointed  out 
to  him,  he  yielded  at  once,  though  with  a  heavy  heart, 
his  eyes  looking  longingly  toward  the  ring  as  we  re- 
treated out  of  the  booth.  We  were  scarcely  clear  of 
the  place  when  we  heard  "  God  save  the  King"  played 
by  the  equestrian  band,  the  signal  that  all  was  over. 
Our  companion  entertained  us  with  scraps  of  the  dia- 
logue on  our  way  home  —  precious  crumbs  of  wit 
which  he  had  brought  away  from  that  feast.  He 
laughed  over  them  again  as  we  walked  under  the 
stars.     He  has  them  now,  and  takes  them  out  of  the 


100  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

pocket  of  his  memory,  and  crunches  a  bit,  and  relish- 
es it  with  a  sentimental  tenderness  too,  for  he  is,  no 
doubt,  back  at  school  by  this  time ;  the  holidays  are 
over,  and  Doctor  Birch's  young  friends  have  reassem- 
bled. 

Queer  jokes,  which  caused  a  thousand  simple  mouths 
to  grin !  As  the  jaded  Merry  man  uttered  them  to  the 
old  gentleman  with  the  whip,  some  of  the  old  folks  in 
the  audience,  I  dare  say,  indulged  in  reflections  of 
their  own.  There  was  one  joke — I  utterly  forget  it — 
but  it  began  with  Merryman  saying  what  he  had  for 
dinner.  He  had  mutton  for  dinner  at  one  o'clock, 
after  which  "  he  had  to  come  to  business.11  And  then 
came  the  point.  Walter  Juvenis,  Esq.,  Eev.  Doctor 
Birch's,  Market  Rodborough,  if  you  read  this,  will  you 
please  send  me  a  line,  and  let  me  know  what  was  the 
joke  Mr.  Merryman  made  about  having  his  dinner  ? 
You  remember  well  enough.  But  do  I  want  to  know  ? 
Suppose  a  boy  takes  a  favorite,  long-cherished  lump 
of  cake  out  of  his  pocket,  and  offers  you  a  bite? 
Merci  !  The  fact  is,  I  donH  care  much  about  kno wing- 
that  joke  of  Mr.  Merry  man's. 

But  while  he  was  talking  about  his  dinner,  and  his 
mutton,  and  his  landlord,  and  his  business,  I  felt  a 
great  interest  about  Mr.  M.  in  private  life— about  his 
wife,  lodgings,  earnings,  and  general  history,  and  I 
dare  say  was  forming  a  picture  of  those  in  my  mind: 
wife  cooking  the  mutton;  children  waiting  for  it; 
Merryman  in  his  plain  clothes,  and  so  forth ;  during 
which  contemplation  the  joke  was  uttered  and  laughed 
at,  and  Mr.  M.,  resuming  his  professional  duties,  was 
tumbling  over  head  and  heels.     Do  not  suppose  I  am 


DE  JUVENTUTE.  101 

going,  sicut  est  mos,  to  indulge  in  moralities  about  buf- 
foons, paint,  motley,  and  mountebanking. .  Nay,  prime 
ministers  rehearse  their  jokes ;  Opposition  leaders  pre- 
pare and  polish  them ;  Tabernacle  preachers  must  ar- 
range them  in  their  mind  before  they  utter  them.  All 
I  mean  is,  that  I  would  like  to  know  any  one  of  these 
performers  thoroughly,  and  out  of  his  uniform :  that 
preacher,  and  why  in  his  travels  this  and  that  point 
struck  him ;  wherein  lies  his  power  of  pathos,  humor, 
eloquence;  that  minister  of  state,  and  what  moves 
him,  and  how  his  private  heart  is  working ;  I  would 
only  say  that  at  a  certain  time  of  life  certain  things 
cease  to  interest ;  but  about  some  things  when  we 
cease  to  care,  what  will  be  the  use  of  life,  sight,  hear- 
ing? Poems  are  written,  and  we  cease  to  admire. 
Lady  Jones  invites  us,  and  we  yawn;  she  ceases  to 
invite  us,  and  we  are  resigned.  The  last  time  I  saw 
a  ballet  at  the  opera — oh !  it  is  many  years  ago — I 
fell  asleep  in  the  stalls,  wagging  my  head  in  insane 
dreams,  and  I  hope  affording  amusement  to  the  com- 
pany, while  the  feet  of  five  hundred  nymphs  were 
cutting  flicflacs  on  the  stage  at  a  few  paces'  distance. 
Ah !  I  remember  a  different  state  of  things.  Credite 
posieri.  To  see  those  nymphs — gracious  powers,  how 
beautiful  they  were !  That  leering,  painted,  shriveled, 
thin-armed,  thick-ankled  old  thing,  cutting  dreary  ca- 
pers, coming  thumping  down  on  her  board  out  of  time 
— that  an  opera-dancer?  Pooh!  My  dear  Walter, 
the  great  difference  between  my  time  and  yours,  who 
will  enter  life  some  two  or  three  years  hence,  is  that 
now  the  dancing  women  and  singing  women  are  ludi- 
crously old,  out  of  time,  and  out  of  tune ;  the  paint  is 


102  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

so  visible,  and  the  dinge  and  wrinkles  of  their  wretch- 
ed old  cotton  stockings,  that  I  am  surprised  how  any- 
body can  like  to  look  at  them.  And  as  for  laughing 
at  me  for  falling  asleep,  I  can't  understand  a  man  of 
sense  doing  otherwise.  In  my  time,  d  la  bonne  heure. 
In  the  reign  of  George  IV.,  I  give  you  my  honor,  all 
the  dancers  at  the  opera  were  as  beautiful  as  Houris. 
Even  in  William  IV.'s  time,  when  I  think  of  Duver- 
nay  prancing  in  as  the  Bayadere — I  say  it  was  a  vi- 
sion of  loveliness  such  as  mortal  eyes  can't  see  nowa- 
days. How  well  I  remember  the  tune  to  which  she 
used  to  appear!  Kaled  used  to  say  to  the  sultan, 
"  My  lord,  a  troop  of  those  dancing  and  singging  gurls 
called  Bayaderes  approaches,"  and,  to  the  clash  of 
cymbals,  and  the  thumping  of  my  heart,  in  she  used 
to  dance !  There  has  never  been  any  thiug  like  it — 
never.  There  never  will  be — I  laugh  to  scorn  old 
people  who  tell  me  about  your  Noblet,  your  Mon- 
tessu,  your  Yestris,  your  Parisot — pshaw !  the  senile 
twaddlers !  And  the  impudence  of  the  young  men, 
with  their  music  and  their  dancers  of  to-day !  I  tell 
you  the  women  are  dreary  old  creatures.  I  tell  you 
one  air  in  an  opera  is  just  like  another,  and  they  send 
all  rational  creatures  to  sleep.  Ah !  Eonzi  de  Begnis, 
thou  lovely  one !  Ah !  Caradori,  thou  smiling  angel ! 
Ah !  Malibran !  Nay,  I  will  come  to  modern  times, 
and  acknowledge  that  Lablache  was  a  very  good 
singer  thirty  years  ago  (though  Porto  was  the  boy 
for  me) ;  and  then  we  had  Ambrogetti,  and  Curioni, 
and  Donzelli,  a  rising  young  singer. 

But  what  is   most  certain   and  lamentable  is  the 
decay  of  stage  beauty  since  the  days  of  George  IY. 


DE  JUVENTUTE.  103 

Think  of  Sontag !  I  remember  her  in  Otello  and  the 
Donna  del  Lago  in  '28.  I  remember  being  behind 
the  scenes  at  the  opera  (where  numbers  of  us  young 
fellows  of  fashion  used  to  go),  and  seeing  Sontag  let 
her  hair  fall  down  over  her  shoulders  previous  to  her 
murder  by  Donzelli.  Young  fellows  have  never  seen 
beauty  like  that,  heard  such  a  voice,  seen  such  hair, 
such  eyes.  Don't  tell  me!  A  man  who  has  been 
about  town  since  the  reign  of  George  IV.,  ought  he 
not  to  know  better  than  yoxx  young  lads  who  have 
seen  nothing?  The  deterioration  of  women  is  lament- 
able ;  and  the  conceit  of  the  young  fellows  more  lam- 
entable still,  that  they  won't  see  this  fact,  but  persist 
in  thinking  their  time  as  good  as  ours. 

Bless  me !  when  I  was  a  lad,  the  stage  was  covered 
with  angels,  who  sang,  acted,  and  danced.  When  I 
remember  the  Adelphi,  and  the  actresses  there ;  when 
I  think  of  Miss  Chester,  and  Miss  Love,  and  Mrs. 
Serle  at  Sadler's  Wells,  and  her  forty  glorious  pupils 
— of  the  Opera  and  Noblet,  and  the  exquisite  young 
Taglioni,  and  Pauline  Leroux,  and  a  host  more !  One 
much-admired  being  of  those  days  I  confess  I  never 
cared  for,  and  that  was  the  chief  male  dancer — a  very 
important  personage  then,  with,  a  bare  neck,  bare 
arms,  a  tunic,  and  a  hat  and  feathers,  who  used  to  di- 
vide the  applause  with  the  ladies,  and  who  has  now 
sunk  down  a  trap-door  forever.  And  this  frank  ad- 
mission ought  to  show  that  I  am  not  your  mere  twad- 
dling laudator  temporis  acti — your  old  fogy  who  can 
see  no  good  except  in  his  own  time. 

They  say  that  claret  is  better  nowadays,  and  cook- 
ery much  improved  since  the  days  of  my  monarch — 


104  KOUNDABOUT  PAPEKS. 

of  George  TV.  Pastry  Cookery  is  certainly  not  so 
good.  I  have  often  eaten  half  a  crown's  worth  (in- 
cluding, I  trust,  ginger-beer)  at  our  school  pastry- 
cook's, and  that  is  a  proof  that  the  pastry  must  have 
been  very  good,  for  could  I  do  as  much  now?  I 
passed  by  the  pastry-cook's  shop  lately,  having  occa- 
sion to  visit  my  old  school.  It  looked  a  very  dingy 
old  baker's ;  misfortunes  may  have  come  over  him ; 
those  penny  tarts  certainly  did  not  look  so  nice  as  I 
remember  them ;  but  he  may  have  grown  careless  as 
he  has  grown  old  (I  should  judge  him  to  be  now 
about  ninety -six  years  of  age),  and  his  hand  may  have 
lost  its  cunning. 

Not  that  we  were  not  great  epicures.  I  remember 
how  we  constantly  grumbled  at  the  quantity  of  the 
food  in  our  master's  house — which,  on  my  conscience, 
I  believe  was  excellent  and  plentiful — and  how  we 
tried  once  or  twice  to  eat  him  out  of  house  and  home. 
At  the  pastry-cook's  we  may  have  overeaten  our- 
selves (I  have  admitted  half  a  crown's  worth  for  my 
own  part,  but  I  don't  like  to  mention  the  real  figure 
for  fear  of  perverting  the  present  generation  of  boys 
by  my  monstrous  confession) — we  may  have  eaten 
too  much,  I  say.  We  did;  but  what  then?  The 
school  apothecary  was  sent  for :  a  couple  of  small 
globules  at  night,  a  trifling  preparation  of  senna  in 
the  morning,  and  we  had  not  to  go  to  school,  so  that 
the  draught  was  an  actual  pleasure. 

For  our  amusements,  besides  the  games  in  vogue, 
which  were  pretty  much  in  old  times  as  they  are  now 
(except  cricket,  par  exemple — and  I  wish  the  present 
youth  joy  of  their  bowling,  and  suppose  Armstrong 


DE  JUVENTUTE.  105 

and  Whit  worth  will  bowl  at  them  with  light  field- 
pieces  next),  there  were  novels — ah!  I  trouble  you 
to  find  such  novels  in  the  present  day !  Oh  Scottish 
Chiefs,  didn't  we  weep  over  you!  Oh  Mysteries  of 
Udolfo,  didn't  I  and  Briggs  minor  draw  pictures  out 
of  you,  as  I  have  said  ?  This  was  the  sort  of  thing : 
this  was  the  fashion  in  our  day.  {Vide  page  106.) 
Efforts,  feeble  indeed,  but  still  giving  pleasure  to  us 
and  our  friends.  "I  say,  old  boy,  draw  us  Vivaldi 
tortured  in  the  Inquisition,"  or,  "Draw  us  Don  Quix- 
ote and  the  windmills,  you  know,"  amateurs  would 
say,  to  boys  who  had  a  love  of  drawing.  Peregrine 
Pickle  we  liked,  our  fathers  admiring  it,  and  telling  us 
(the  sly  old  boys)  it  was  capital  fun;  but  I  think  I 
was  rather  bewildered  by  it,  though  Koderick  Ean- 
dom  was  and  remains  delightful.  I  don't  remember 
having  Sterne  in  the  school  library,  no  doubt  because 
the  works  of  that  divine  were  not  considered  decent 
for  young  people.  Ah !  not  against  thy  genius,  Oh 
father  of  Uncle  Toby  and  Trim,  would  I  say  a  word 
in  disrespect.  But  I  am  thankful  to  live  in  times 
when  men  no  longer  have  the  temptation  to  write 
so  as  to  call  blushes  on  women's  cheeks,  and  would 
shame  to  whisper  wicked  allusions  to  honest  boys. 
Then,  above  all,  we  had  Walter  Scott,  the  kindly, 
the  generous,  the  pure — the  companion  of  what  count- 
less delightful  hours ;  the  purveyor  of  how  much  hap- 
piness; the  friend  whom  we  recall  as  the  constant 
benefactor  of  our  youth !  How  well  I  remember  the 
type  and  the  brownish  paper  of  the  old  duodecimo 
Tales  of  My  Landlord!  I  have  never  dared  to  read 
the  Pirate,  and  the  Bride  of  Lammermoor,  or  Kenil- 
E2 


106 


ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 


ivorth,  from  that  day  to  this,  because  the  finale  is  un- 
happy, and  people  die,  and  are  murdered  at  the  end. 
But  Ivanhoe,  and  Quentin  Durward!     Oh  for  a  half- 


&3^^»^ 


DE  JTJVENTUTE.  107 

holiday,  and  a  quiet  corner,  and  one  of  those  books 
again!  Those  books,  and  perhaps  those  eyes  with 
which  we  read  them ;  and,  it  may  be,  the  brains  be- 
hind the  eyes !  It  may  be  the  tart  was  good ;  but 
how  fresh  the  appetite  was !  If  the  gods  would  give 
me  the  desire  of  my  heart,  I  should  be  able  to  write 
a  story  which  boys  would  relish  for  the  next  few 
dozen  of  centuries.  The  boy-critic  loves  the  story ; 
grown  up,  he  loves  the  author  who  wrote  the  story. 
Hence  the  kindly  tie  is  established  between  writer 
and  reader,  and  lasts  pretty  nearly  for  life.  I  meet 
people  now  who  don't  care  for  Walter  Scott,  or  the 
Arabian  Nights ;  I  am  sorry  for  them,  unless  they  in 
their  time  have  found  their  romancer — their  charming 
Scheherazade.  By-the-way,  Walter,  when  you  are 
writing,  tell  me  who  is  the  favorite  novelist  in  the 
fourth  form  now  ?  Have  you  got  any  thing  so  good 
and  kindly  as  dear  Miss  Edge  worth's  Frank?  It  used 
to  belong  to  a  fellow's  sisters  generally ;  but,  though 
he  pretended  to  despise  it,  and  said,  "Oh,  stuff  for 
girls!"  he  read  it;  and  I  think  there  were  one  or  two 
passages  which  would  try  my  eyes  now  were  I  to 
meet  with  the  little  book. 

As  for  Thomas  and  Jeremiah  (it  is  only  my  witty 
way  of  calling  Tom  and  Jerry),  I  went  to  the  British 
Museum  the  other  day  on  purpose  to  get  it;  but 
somehow,  if  you  will  press  the  question  so  closely,  on 
re-perusal,  Tom  and  Jerry  is  not  so  brilliant  as  I  had 
supposed  it  to  be.  The  pictures  are  just  as  fine  as 
ever ;  and  I  shook  hands  with  broad-backed  Jerry 
Hawthorn  and  Corinthian  Tom  with  delight  after 
many  years'  absence.     But  the  style  of  the  writing,  I 


108  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

own,  was  not  pleasing  to  me ;  I  even  thought  it  a  lit- 
tle vulgar — well !  well !  other  writers  have  been  con- 
sidered vulgar — and  as  a  description  of  the  sports  and 
amusements  of  London  in  the  ancient  times,  more  cu- 
rious than  amusing. 

But  the  pictures  ! — oh,  the  pictures  are  noble  still ! 
First,  there  is  Jerry  arriving  from  the  country,  in  a 
green  coat  and  leather  gaiters,  and  being  measured  for 
a  fashionable  suit  at  Corinthian  House  by  Corinthian 
Tom's  tailor.  Then  away  for  the  career  of  pleasure 
and  fashion.  The  park !  delicious  excitement !  The 
theatre !  the  saloon ! !  the  green-room ! ! !  Kapturous 
bliss — the  opera  itself!  and  then  perhaps  to  Temple 
Bar,  to  knock  down  a  Charley  there  !  There  are  Jerry 
and  Tom,  with  their  tights  and  little  cocked  hats,  com- 
ing from  the  opera — very  much  as  gentlemen  in  wait- 
ing on  royalty  are  habited  now.  There  they  are  at 
Almack's  itself,  amidst  a  crowd  of  high-bred  person- 
ages, with  the  Duke  of  Clarence  himself  looking  at 
them  dancing.  Now,  strange  change,  they  are  in  Tom 
Cribb's  parlor,  where  they  don't  seem  to  be  a  whit  less 
at  home  than  in  fashion's  gilded  halls :  and  now  they 
are  at  Newgate,  seeing  the  irons  knocked  off  the  male- 
factors' legs  previous  to  execution.  What  hardened 
ferocity  in  the  countenance  of  the  desperado  in  yellow 
breeches  !  What  compunction  in  the  face  of  the  gen- 
tleman in  black  (who,  I  suppose,  has  been  forging),  and 
who  clasps  his  hands,  and  listens  to  the  chaplain ! 
Now  we  haste  away  to  merrier  scenes :  to  Tattersall's 
(ah !  gracious  powers !  what  a  funny  fellow  that  actor 
was  who  performed  Dicky  Green  in  that  scene  at  the 
play !) ;  and  now  we  are  at  a  private  party,  at  which 


DE   JUVENTUTE. 


109 


Corinthian  Tom  is  waltzing  (and  very  gracefully,  too, 
as  you  must  confess)  with  Corinthian  Kate,  while  Bob 
Logic,  the  Oxonian,  is  playing  on  the  piano  ! 

"After,"  the  text  says,  "the  Oxonian  had  played 
several  pieces  of  lively  music,  he  requested  as  a  favor 
that  Kate  and  his  friend  Tom  would  perform  a  waltz. 
Kate,  without  any  hesitation,  immediately  stood  up. 
Tom  offered  his  hand  to  his  fascinating  partner,  and 
the  dance  took  place.    The  plate  below  conveys  a  cor- 


110  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

rcct  representation  of  the  'gay  scene'  at  that  precise 
moment.  The  anxiety  of  the  Oxonian  to  witness  the 
attitudes  of  the  elegant  pair  had  nearly  put  a  stop  to 
their  movements.  On  turning  round  from  the  piano- 
forte and  presenting  his  comical  mug,  Kate  could 
scarcely  suppress  a  laugh." 

And  no  wonder;  just  look  at  it  now  (as  I  have 
copied  it  to  the  best  of  my  humble  ability),  and  com- 
pare Master  Logic's  countenance  and  attitude  with  the 
splendid  elegance  of  Tom !  Now  every  London  man 
is  weary  and  blase.  There  is  an  enjoyment  of  life  in 
these  young  bucks  of  1823  which  contrasts  strangely 
with  our  feelings  of  1860.  Here,  for  instance,  is  a 
specimen  of  their  talk  and  walk.  "  '  If,'  says  Logic — 
'  if  enjoyment  is  your  motto,  you  may  make  the  most  of 
an  evening  at  Yauxhall,  more  than  at  any  other  place 
in  the  metropolis.  It  is  all  free  and  easy.  Stay  as 
long  as  you  like,  and  depart  when  you  think  proper.' 
'Your  description  is  so  flattering,'  replied  Jerry,  'that 
I  do  not  care  how  soon  the  time  arrives  for  us  to  start.' 
Logic  proposed  a  '  bit  of  a  stroll1  in  order  to  get  rid  of 
an  hour  or  two,  which  was  immediately  accepted  by 
Tom  and  Jerry.  A  turn  or  two  in  Bond  Street,  a  stroll 
through  Piccadilly,  a  look  in  at  Tattersall's,  a  ram- 
ble through  Pall  Mall,  and  a  strut  on  the  Corinthian 
path,  fully  occupied  the  time  of  our  heroes  until  the 
hour  for  dinner  arrived,  when  a  few  glasses  of  Tom's 
rich  wines  soon  put  them  on  the  qui  vice.  Yauxhall 
was  then  the  object  in  view,  and  the  Trio  started,  bent 
upon  enjoying  the  pleasures  which  this  place  so  amply 
affords."   * 

How  nobly  those  inverted  commas,  those  italics. 


DE  JUVENTUTE.  Ill 

those  capitals,  bring  out  the  writer's  wit  and  relieve 
the  eye!  They  are  as  good  as  jokes,  though  you 
mayn't  quite  perceive  the  point.  Mark  the  varieties 
of  lounge  in  which  the  young  men  indulge — now  a 
stroll,  then  a  look  in,  then  a  ramble,  and  presently  a 
strut.  When  George,  Prince  of  Wales,  was  twenty,  I 
have  read  in  an  old  Magazine,  "  the  Prince's  lounge" 
was  a  peculiar  manner  of  walking  which  the  young 
bucks  imitated.  At  Windsor  George  III.  had  a  cat's 
path — a  sly  early  walk  which  the  good  old  king  took 
in  the  gray  morning  before  his  household  was  astir. 
What  was  the  Corinthian  path  here  recorded?  Does 
any  antiquary  know  ?  And  what  were  the  rich  wines 
which  our  friends  took,  and  which  enabled  them  to 
enjoy  Yauxhall?  Vauxhall  is  gone,  but  the  wines 
which  could  occasion  such  a  delightful  perversion  of 
the  intellect  as  to  enable  it  to  enjoy  ample  pleasures 
there,  what  were  they? 

So  the  game  of  life  proceeds,  until  Jerry  Hawthorn, 
the  rustic,  is  fairly  knocked  up  by  all  this  excitement 
and  is  forced  to  go  home,  and  the  last  picture  repre- 
sents him  getting  into  the  coach  at  the  White  Horse 
Collar,  he  being  one  of  six  inside;  while  his  friends 
shake  him  by  the  hand;  while  the  sailor  mounts  on 
tin*  roof;  while  the  Jews  hang  round  with  oranges, 
knives,  and  sealing-wax;  while  the  guard  is  closing 
the  door.  Where  are  they  now,  those  sealing-wax 
vendors?  where  are  the  guards?  where  are  the  jolly 
teams?  where  are  the  coaches?  and  where  the  youth 
that  climbed  inside  and  out  of  them ;  that  heard  the 
merry  horn  which  sounds  no  more ;  that  saw  the  sun 
rise  over  Stonehenge;   that  rubbed  away  the  bitter 


112  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

tears  at  night  after  parting  as  the  coach  sped  on  the 
journey  to  school  and  London ;  that  looked  out  with 
beating  heart  as  the  milestones  flew  by,  for  the  wel- 
come corner  where  began  home  and  holidays? 

It  is  night  now,  and  here  is  home.  Gathered  under 
the  quiet  roof  elders  and  children  lie  alike  at  rest.  In 
the  midst  of  a  great  peace  and  calm,  the  stars  look  out 
from  the  heavens.  The  silence  is  peopled  with  the 
past ;  sorrowful  remorses  for  sins  and  shortcomings — 
memories  of  passionate  joys  and  griefs  rise  out  of  their 
graves,  both  now  alike  calm  and  sad.  Eyes,  as  I  shut 
mine,  look  at  me,  that  have  long  ceased  to  shine.  The 
town  and  the  fair  landscape  sleep  under  the  starlight, 
wreathed  in  the  autumn  mists.  Twinkling  among 
the  houses  a  light  keeps  watch  here  and  there,  in  what 
may  be  a  sick-chamber  or  two.  The  clock  tolls  sweet- 
ly in  the  silent  air.  Here  is  night  and  rest.  An  aw- 
ful sense  of  thanks  makes  the  heart  swell,  and  the  head 
bow,  as  I  pass  to  my  room  through  the  sleeping  house, 
and  feel  as  though  a  hushed  blessing  were  upon  it. 


ON  A  JOKE  FROM  THE  LATE  T.  HOOD.    113 


ON  A  JOKE  I  ONCE  HEARD  FROM  THE  LATE 
THOMAS  HOOD. 


HE  good  -  natured 
reader  who  has  pe- 
rused some  of  these 
rambling  papers 
has  long  since  seen 
(if  to  see  has  been 
worth  his  trouble) 
that  the  writer  be- 
longs to  the  old- 
fashioned  classes 
of  this  world,  loves 
to  remember  very 
much  more  than 
to  prophesy,  and 
though  he  can't 
help  being  carried 
onward,  and  downward,  perhaps,  on  the  hill  of  life, 
the  swift  milestones  marking  their  forties,  fifties — how 
many  tens  or  lustres  shall  we  say?  —  he  sits  under 
Time,  the  white- wigged  charioteer,  with  his  back  to 
the  horses  and  his  face  to  the  past,  looking  at  the  re- 
ceding landscape  and  the  hills  fading  into  the  gray 
distance.  Ah  me !  those  gray,  distant  hills  were  green 
once,  and  here,  and  covered  with  smiling  people  !     As 


114  EOUNDABOUT  PAPEES. 

we  came  wp  the  hill  there  was  difficulty,  and  here  and 
there  a  hard  pull  to  be  sure,  but  strength,  and  spirits, 
and  all  sorts  of  cheery  incident  and  companionship  on 
the  road ;  there  were  the  tough  struggles  (by  Heav- 
en's merciful  will)  overcome,  the  pauses,  the  faintings, 
the  weakness,  the  lost  way,  perhaps,  the  bitter  weath- 
er, the  dreadful  partings,  the  lonely  night,  the  passion- 
ate grief — toward  these  I  turn  my  thoughts  as  I  sit 
and  think  in  my  hobby-coach  under  Time,  the  silver- 
wigged  charioteer.  The  young  folks  in  the  same  car- 
riage meanwhile  are  looking  forward.  Nothing  es- 
capes their  keen  eyes — not  a  flower  at  the  side  of  a 
cottage  garden,  nor  a  bunch  of  rosy -faced  children  at 
the  gate :  the  landscape  is  all  bright,  the  air  brisk  and 
jolly,  the  town  yonder  looks  beautiful,  and  do  you 
think  they  have  learned  to  be  difficult  about  the  dish- 
es at  the  inn  ? 

Now,  suppose  Paterfamilias  on  his  journey  with  his 
wife  and  children  in  the  sociable,  and  he  passes  an 
ordinary  brick  house  on  the  road  with  an  ordinary 
little  garden  in  the  front,  we  will  say,  and  quite  an  or- 
dinary knocker  to  the  door,  and  as  many  sashed  win- 
dows as  you  please,  quite  common  and  square,  and 
tiles,  windows,  chimney-pots,  quite  like  others ;  or 
suppose,  in  driving  over  such  and  such  a  common,  he 
sees  an  ordinary  tree,  and  an  ordinary  donkey  brows- 
ing under  it,  if  you  like — wife  and  daughter  look  at 
these  objects  without  the  slightest  particle  of  curiosity 
or  interest.  What  is  a  brass  knocker  to  them  but  a 
lion's  head  or  what  not  ?  and  a  thorn-tree  with  a  pool 
beside  it  but  a  pool  in  which  a  thorn  and  a  jackass  are 
reflected  ? 


ON  A  JOKE  FROM  THE  LATE  T.  HOOD.    115 

But  you  remember  how  once  upon  a  time  your 
heart  used  to  beat,  as  you  beat  on  that  brass  knocker, 
and  whose  eyes  looked  from  the  window  above  ?  You 
remember  how  by  that  thorn-tree  and  pool,  where  the 
geese  were  performing  a  prodigious  evening  concert, 
there  might  be  seen,  at  a  certain  hour,  somebody  in  a 
certain  cloak  and  bonnet,  who  happened  to  be  coming 
from  a  village  yonder,  and  whose  image  has  flickered 
in  that  pool  ?  In  that  pool,  near  the  thorn  ?  Yes,  in 
that  goose-pool,  never  mind  how  long  ago,  when  there 
were  reflected  the  images  of  the  geese — and  two  geese 
more.  Here,  at  least,  an  oldster  may  have  the  ad- 
vantage of  his  young  fellow-travelers,  and  so  Putney 
Heath  or  the  New  Road  may  be  invested  with  a  halo 
of  brightness  invisible  to  them,  because  it  only  beams 
out  of  his  own  soul. 

I  have  been  reading  the  Memorials  of  Hood  by  his 
children,*  and  wonder  whether  the  book  will  have 
the  same  interest  for  others  and  for  younger  people  as 
for  persons  of  my  own  age  and  calling.  Books  of 
travel  to  any  country  become  interesting  to  us  who 
have  been  there.  Men  revisit  the  old  school,  though 
hateful  to  them,  with  ever  so  much  kindliness  and 
sentimental  affection.  There  was  the  tree  under 
which  the  bully  licked  you ;  here  the  ground  where 
you  had  to  fag  out  on  holidays,  and  so  forth.  In  a 
word,  my  dear  sir,  You  are  the  most  interesting  sub- 
ject to  yourself  of  any  that  can  occupy  your  worship's 
thoughts.  I  have  no  doubt  a  Crimean  soldier,  read- 
ing a  history  of  that  siege,  and  how  Jones  and  the 
gallant  99th  were  ordered  to  charge  or  what  not, 

*  Memorials  of  Thomas  Hood.     Moxon,  1860.     2  vols. 


116  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

thinks,  "  Ah  !  yes,  we  of  the  100th  were  placed  so  and 
so,  I  perfectly  remember."  So  with  this  memorial  of 
poor  Hood,  it  may  have,  no  doubt,  a  greater  interest 
for  me  than  for  others,  for  I  was  fighting,  so  to  speak, 
in  a  different  part  of  the  field,  and  engaged,  a  young 
subaltern  in  the  Battle  of  Life,  in  which  Hood  fell, 
young  still,  and  covered  with  glory.  "  The  Bridge  of 
Sighs"  was  his  Corunna,  his  heights  of  Abraham — 
sickly,  weak,  wounded,  he  fell  in  the  full  blaze  and 
fame  of  that  great  victory. 

What  manner  of  man  was  the  genius  who  penned 
that  famous  song ?  What  like  was  Wolfe,  who  climbed 
and  conquered  on  those  famous  Heights  of  Abraham? 
We  all  want  to  know  details  regarding  men  who  have 
achieved  famous  feats,  whether  of  war,  or  wit,  or  elo- 
quence, or  endurance,  or  knowledge.  His  one  or  two 
happy  and  heroic  actions  take  a  man's  name  and  mem- 
ory out  of  the  crowd  of  names  and  memories.  Hence- 
forth he  stands  eminent.  We  scan  him ;  we  want  to 
know  all  about  him ;  we  walk  round  and  examine 
him ;  are  curious,  perhaps,  and  think  are  we  not  as 
strong,  and  tall,  and  capable  as  yonder  champion ;  were 
we  not  bred  as  well,  and  could  we  not  endure  the  win- 
ter's cold  as  well  as  he  ?  Or  we  look  up  with  all  our 
eyes  of  admiration ;  will  find  no  fault  in  our  hero ;  de- 
clare his  beauty  and  proportions  perfect;  his  critics 
envious  detractors,  and  so  forth.  Yesterday,  before 
he  performed  his  feat,  he  was  nobody.  Who  cared 
about  his  birth-place,  his  parentage,  or  the  color  of  his 
hair  ?  To-day,  by  some  single  achievement,  or  by  a 
series  of  great  actions  to  which  his  genius  accustoms 
us,  he  is  famous,  and  antiquarians  are  busy  finding 


ON  A  JOKE  FROM  THE  LATE  T.  HOOD.    117 

out  under  what  schoolmaster's  ferule  he  was  educated, 
where  his  grandmother  was  vaccinated,  and  so  forth. 
If  half  a  dozen  washing-bills  of  Goldsmith's  were  to 
be  found  to-morrow,  would  they  not  inspire  a  general 
interest,  and  be  printed  in  a  hundred  papers  ?  I  light- 
ed upon  Oliver,  not  very  long  since,  in  an  old  Town 
and  Country  Magazine,  at  the  Pantheon  masquerade 
"  in  an  old  English  habit."  Straightway  my  imagina- 
tion ran  out  to  meet  him,  to  look  at  him,  to  follow  him 
about.  I  forgot  the  names  of  scores  of  fine  gentlemen 
of  the  past  age  who  were  mentioned  besides.  We 
want  to  see  this  man  who  has  amused  and  charmed 
us ;  who  has  been  our  friend,  and  given  us  hours  of 
pleasant  companionship  and  kindly  thought.  I  pro- 
test when  I  came,  in  the  midst  of  those  names  of  peo- 
ple of  fashion,  and  beaux,  and  demireps,  upon  those 
names  "Sir  J.R-yn-lds  in  a  domino;  Mr.  Cr-d-ck  and 
Dr.  G-ldsm-ih  in  tivo  old  English  dresses"  I  had,  so  to 
speak,  my  heart  in  my  mouth.  What,  you  here,  my 
dear  Sir  Joshua  ?  Ah  !  what  an  honor  and  privilege 
it  is  to  see  you  !  This  is  Mr.  Goldsmith  ?  And  very 
much,  sir,  the  ruff  and  the  slashed  doublet  become 
you  !  Oh  doctor !  what  a  pleasure  I  had  and  have  in 
reading  the  Animated  Nature.  How  did  you  learn  the 
secret  of  writing  the  decasy liable  line,  and  whence  that 
sweet  wailing  note  of  tenderness  that  accompanies 
your  song  ?  Was  Beau  Tibbs  a  real  man,  and  will 
you  do  me  the  honor  of  allowing  me  to  sit  at  your 
table  at  supper?  Don't  you  think  you  know  how  he 
would  have  talked?  Would  you  not  have  liked  to 
hear  him  prattle  over  the  Champagne  ? 

Now  Hood  is  passed  away — passed  off  the  earth  as 


118  ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS. 

much  as  Goldsmith  or  Horace.  The  times  in  which 
he  lived,  and  in  which  very  many  of  us  lived  and  were 
young,  are  changing  or  changed.  I  saw  Hood  once 
as  a  young  man,  at  a  dinner  which  seems  almost  as 
ghostly  now  as  that  masquerade  at  the  Pantheon 
(1772),  of  which  we  were  speaking  anon.  It  was  at  a 
dinner  of  the  Literary  Fund,  in  that  vast  apartment 
which  is  hung  round  with  the  portraits  of  very  large 
royal  freemasons,  now  unsubstantial  ghosts.  There, 
at  the  end  of  the  room,  was  Hood.  Some  publishers, 
I  think,  were  our  companions.  I  quite  remember  his 
pale-  face ;  he  was  thin  and  deaf,  and  very  silent ;  he 
scarcely  opened  his  lips  during  the  dinner,  and  he 
made  one  pun.  Some  gentleman  missed  his  snuff-box, 
and  Hood  said — (the  Freemasons'  Tavern  was  kept, 
you  must  remember,  by  Mr.  Cuff  in  those  days,  not 
by  its  present  proprietors).  Well,  the  box  being  lost, 
and  asked  for,  and  Cuff  (remember  that  name)  being 
the  name  of  the  landlord,  Hood  opened  his  silent  jaws 
and  said  *  *  *  *  *  Shall  I  tell  you  what  he  said? 
It  was  not  a  very  good  pun  which  the  great  punster 
then  made.  Choose  your  favorite  pun  out  of  Whims 
and  Oddities,  and  fancy  that  was  the  joke  which  he 
contributed  to  the  hilarity  of  our  little  table. 

"Where  those  asterisks  are  drawn  on  the  page,  you 
must  know  a  pause  occurred,  during  which  I  was  en- 
gaged with  Hood's  Own,  having  been  referred  to  the 
book  by  this  life  of  the  author  which  I  have  just  been 
reading.  I  am  not  going  to  dissert  on  Hood's  humor ; 
I  am  not  a  fair  judge.  Have  I  not  said  elsewhere  that 
there  are  one  or  two  wonderfully  old  gentlemen  still 
alive  who  used  to  give  me  tips  when  I  was  a  boy  ?    I 


ON  A  JOKE  FKOM  THE  LATE  T.  HOOD.    119 

can't  be  a  fair  critic  about  them.  I  always  think  of 
that  sovereign,  that  rapture  of  raspberry  tarts,  which 
made  my  young  days  happy.  Those  old  sovereign- 
contributors  may  tell  stories  ever  so  old,  and  I  shall 
laugh ;  they  may  commit  murder,  and  I  shall  believe 
it  was  justifiable  homicide.  There  is  my  friend  Baggs, 
who  goes  about  abusing  me,  and  of  course  our  dear 
mutual  friends  tell  me.  Abuse  away,  mon  bon  I  You 
were  so  kind  to  me  when  I  wanted  kindness,  that 
you  may  take  the  change  out  of  that  gold  now,  and 
say  I  am  a  cannibal  and  negro,  if  you  will.  Ha,  Baggs ! 
Dost  thou  wince  as  thou  readest  this  line  ?  Does  guilty 
conscience  throbbing  at  thy  breast  tell  thee  of  whom 
the  fable  is  narrated  ?  Puff  out  thy  wrath,  and,  when 
it  has  ceased  to  blow,  my  Baggs  shall  be  to  me  as  the 
Baggs  of  old — the  generous,  the  gentle,  the  friendly. 

No,  on  second  thoughts,  I  am  determined  I  will  not 
repeat  that  joke  which  I  heard  Hood  make.  He  says 
he  wrote  these  jokes  with  such  ease  that  he  sent  man- 
uscripts to  the  publishers  faster  than  they  could  ac- 
knowledge the  receipt  thereof.  I  won't  say  that  they 
were  all  good  jokes,  or  that  to  read  a  great  book  full 
of  them  is  a  work  at  present  altogether  jocular.  "Writ- 
ing to  a  friend  respecting  some  memoir  of  him  which 
had  been  published,  Hood  says,  u  You  will  judge  how 
well  the  author  knows  me  when  he  says  my  mind  is 
rather  serious  than  comic."  At  the  time  when  he 
wrote  these  words  he  evidently  undervalued  his  own 
serious  power,  and  thought  that  in  punning  and  broad- 
grinning  lay  his  chief  strength.  Is  not  there  some- 
thing touching  in  that  simplicity  and  humility  of 
faith?     "To  make  laugh  is  my  calling,"  says  he;  "I 


120  EOUNDABOUT   PAPEKS. 

must  jump,  I  must  grin,  I  must  fumble,  I  must  turn 
language  head  over  heels,  and  leap  through  grammar;" 
and  he  goes  to  his  work  humbly  and  courageously, 
and  what  he  has  to  do  that  does  he  with  all  his  might, 
through  sickness,  through  sorrow,  through  exile,  pov- 
erty, fever,  depression — there  he  is,  always  ready  to 
his  work,  and  with  a  jewel  of  genius  in  his  pocket ! 
Why,  when  he  laid  down  his  puns  and  pranks,  put 
the  motley  off,  and  spoke  out  of  his  heart,  all  England 
and  America  listened  with  tears  and  wonder !  Other 
men  have  delusions  of  conceit,  and  fancy  themselves 
greater  than  they  are,  and  that  the  world  slights  them. 
Have  we  not  heard  how  Liston  always  thought  he 
ought  to  play  Hamlet?  Here  is  a  man  with  a  power 
to  touch  the  heart  almost  unequaled,  and  he  passes 
days  and  years  in  writing  "Young  Ben  he  was  a  nice 
young  man,"  and  so  forth.  To  say  truth,  I  have  been 
reading  in  a  book  of  Hood's  Own  until  I  am  perfectly 
angry.  "You  great  man,  you  good  man,  you  true 
genius  and  poet,"  I  cry  out,  as  I  turn  page  after  page, 
"  do,  do  make  no  more  of  these  jokes,  but  be  yourself, 
and  take  your  station." 

When  Hood  was  on  his  death-bed,  Sir  Eobert  Peel, 
who  only  knew  of  his  illness,  not  of  his  imminent 
danger,  wrote  to  him  a  noble  and  touching  letter,  an- 
nouncing that  a  pension  was  conferred  on  him : 

"I  am  more  than  repaid,"  writes  Peel,  "by  the  personal  satisfac- 
tion which  I  have  had  in  doing  that  for  which  you  return  me  warm 
and  characteristic  acknowledgments. 

"You  perhaps  think  that  you  are  known  to  one,  with  such  multi- 
farious occupations  as  myself,  merely  by  general  reputation  as  an  au- 
thor ;  but  I  assure  you  that  there  can  be  little  which  you  have  writ- 
ten and  acknowledged  which  I  have  not  read,  and  that  there  are  few 


ON  A  JOKE  FROM  THE  LATE  T.  HOOD.    121 

who  can  appreciate  and  admire  more  than  myself  the  good  sense  and 
good  feeling  which  have  taught  you  to  infuse  so  much  fun  and  mer- 
riment into  writings  correcting  folly  and  exposing  absurdities,  and  yet 
never  trespassing  beyond  those  limits  within  which  wit  and  facetious- 
ness  are  not  very  often  confined.  You  may  write  on  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  independence,  as  free  and  unfettered  as  if  no  communi- 
cation had  ever  passed  between  us.  I  am  not  conferring  a  private  ob- 
ligation upon  you,  but  am  fulfilling  the  intentions  of  the  Legislature, 
which  has  placed  at  the  disposal  of  the  crown  a  certain  sum  (miser- 
able, indeed,  in  amount)  to  be  applied  to  the  recognition  of  public 
claims  on  the  bounty  of  the  crown.  If  you  will  review  the  names  of 
those  whose  claims  have  been  admitted  on  account  of  their  literary  or 
scientific  eminence,  you  will  find  an  ample  confirmation  of  the  truth 
of  my  statement. 

"  One  return,  indeed,  I  shall  ask  of  you — that  you  will  give  me  the 
opportunity  of  making  your  personal  acquaintance." 

And  Hood,  writing  to  a  friend,  inclosing  a  copy  of 
Peel's  letter,  says,  "  Sir  E.  Peel  came  from  Burleigh  on 
Tuesday  night,  and  went  down  to  Brighton  on  Satur- 
day. If  he  had  written  by  post,  I  should  not  have 
had  it  till  to-day.  So  he  sent  his  servant  with  the  in- 
closed on  Saturday  night ;  another  mark  of  considerate 
attention."  He  is  frightfully  unwell,  he  continues : 
his  wife  says  he  looks  quite  green ;  but,  ill  as  he  is, 
poor  fellow,  "his  well  is  not  dry.  He  has  pumped 
out  a  sheet  of  Christmas  fun,  is  drawing  some  cuts, 
and  shall  write  a  sheet  more  of  his  novel." 

Oh  sad,  marvelous  picture  of  courage,  of  honesty, 
of  patient  endurance,  of  duty  struggling  against  pain ! 
How  noble  Peel's  figure  is  standing  by  that  sick-bed ! 
how  generous  his  words,  how  dignified  and  sincere  his 
compassion !  And  the  poor  dying  man,  with  a  heart 
full  of  natural  gratitude  toward  his  noble  benefactor, 
must  turn  to  him  and  say,  "  If  it  be  well  to  be  remem- 

F 


122  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

bered  by  a  minister,  it  is  better  still  not  to  be  forgot- 
ten by  him  in  a  '  hurly  Burleigh  !'  "  Can  you  laugh  ? 
Is  not  the  joke  horribly  pathetic  from  the  poor  dying- 
lips?  As  dying  Kobin  Hood  must  fire  a  last  shot 
with  his  bow — as  one  reads  of  Catholics  on  their  death- 
beds putting  on  a  Capuchin  dress  to  go  out  of  the 
world — here  is  poor  Hood  at  his  last  hour  putting  on 
his  ghastly  motley,  and  uttering  one  joke  more. 

He  dies,  however,  in  dearest  love  and  peace  with 
his  children,  wife,  friends ;  to  the  former  especially  his 
whole  life  had  been  devoted,  and  every  day  showed 
his  fidelity,  simplicity,  and  affection.  In  going  through 
the  record  of  his  most  pure,  modest,  honorable  life, 
and  living  along  with  him,  you  come  to  trust  him 
thoroughly,  and  feel  that  here  is  a  most  loyal,  affec- 
tionate, and  upright  soul,  with  whom  you  have  been 
brought  into  communion.  Can  we  say  as  much  of  all 
lives  of  all  men  of  letters  ?  Here  is  one  at  least  with- 
out guile,  without  pretension,  without  scheming,  of  a 
pure  life,  to  his  family  and  little  modest  circle  of 
friends  tenderly  devoted. 

And  what  a  hard  work,  and  what  a  slender  reward ! 
In  the  little  domestic  details  with  which  the  book 
abounds,  what  a  simple  life  is  shown  to  us  !  The 
most  simple  little  pleasures  and  amusements  delight 
and  occupy  him.  You  have  revels  on  shrimps  ;  the 
good  wife  making  the  pie ;  details  about  the  maid,  and 
criticisms  on  her  conduct;  wonderful  tricks  played 
with  the  plum-pudding  —  all  the  pleasures  centring 
round  the  little  humble  home.  One  of  the  first  men 
of  his  time,  he  is  appointed  editor  of  a  magazine  at  a 
salary  of  £300  per  annum,  signs  himself  exultingly 


ON  A  JOKE  FROM  THE  LATE  T.  HOOD.    123 

"Ed.  N".  M.  M.,"  and  the  family  rejoice  over  the  in- 
come as  over  a  fortune.  He  goes  to  a  Greenwich  din- 
ner— what  a  feast  and  rejoicing  afterward ! 

"Well,  we  drank  'the  Boz'  with  a  delectable  clatter,  which  drew 
from  him  a  good  warm-hearted  speech.  .  .  .  He  looked  very 
well,  and  had  a  younger  brother  along  with  him.  .  .  .  Then  we 
had  songs.     Barham  chanted  a  Robin  Hood  ballad,  and  Cruikshank 

sang  a  burlesque  ballad  of  Lord  II ;  and  somebody,  unknown  to 

me,  gave  a  capital  imitation  of  a  French  showman.  Then  we  toasted 
Mrs.  Boz,  and  the  Chairman,  and  Vice,  and  the  Traditional  Priest 
sang  the  ■  Deep,  deep  sea,'  in  his  deep,  deep  voice ;  and  then  we  drank 
to  Procter,  who  wrote  the  said  song ;  also  Sir  J.  Wilson's  good  health, 
and  Cruikshank's,  and  Ainsworth's ;  and  a  Manchester  friend  of  the 
latter  sang  a  Manchester  ditty,  so  full  of  trading  stuff  that  it  really 
seemed  to  have  been  not  composed,  but  manufactured.  Jerdan,  as 
Jerdanish  as  usual  on  such  occasions — you  know  how  paradoxically 
he  is  quite  at  home  in  dining  out.  As  to  myself,  I  had  to  make  my 
second  maiden  speech,  for  Mr.  Monckton  Milnes  proposed  my  health  in 
terms  my  modesty  might  allow  me  to  repeat  to  you,  but  my  memory 
won't.  However,  I  ascribed  the  toast  to  my  notoriously  bad  health, 
and  assured  them  that  their  wishes  had  already  improved  it — that  I 
felt  a  brisker  circulation — a  more  genial  warmth  about  the  heart,  and 
explained  that  a  certain  trembling  of  my  hand  was  not  from  palsy,  or 
my  old  ague,  but  an  inclination  in  my  hand  to  shake  itself  with  every 
one  present.  Whereupon  I  had  to  go  through  the  friendly  ceremony 
with  as  many  of  the  company  as  were  within  reach,  besides  a  few 
more  who  came  express  from  the  other  end  of  the  table.  Very  grati- 
fying, wasn't  it  ?  though  I  can  not  go  quite  so  far  as  Jane,  who  wants 
me  to  have  that  hand  chopped  off,  bottled,  and  preserved  in  spirits. 
She  was  sitting  up  for  me  very  anxiously,  as  usual  when  I  go  out,  be- 
cause I  am  so  domestic  and  steady,  and  was  down  at  the  door  before 
I  could  ring  at  the  gate,  to  which  Boz  kindly  sent  me  in  his  own  car- 
riage. Poor  girl !  what  would  she  do  if  she  had  a  wild  husband  in- 
stead of  a  tame  one  ?" 

And  the  poor  anxious  wife  is  sitting  up,  and  fondles 
the  hand  which  has  been  shaken  by  so  many  illustri- 
ous men !     The  little  feast  dates  back  only  eighteen 


124  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

years,  and  yet  somehow  it  seems  as  distant  as  a  din- 
ner at  Mr.  Thrale's,  or  a  meeting  at  Will's. 

Poor  little  gleam  of  sunshine  I  very  little  good  cheer 
enlivens  that  sad  simple  life.  We  have  the  triumph 
of  the  magazine ;  then  a  new  magazine  projected  and 
produced;  then  illness  and  the  last  scene,  and  the 
kind  Peel  by  the  dying  man's  bedside,  speaking  noble 
words  of  respect  and  sympathy,  and  soothing  the  last 
throbs  of  the  tender  honest  heart. 

I  like,  I  say,  Hood's  life  even  better  than  his  books, 
and  I  wish,  with  all  my  heart,  Monsieur  et  cher  confrere, 
the  same  could  be  said  for  both  of  us  when  the  ink- 
stream  of  our  life  hath  ceased  to  run.  Yes;  if  I  drop 
first,  dear  Baggs,  I  trust  you  may  find  reason  to  mod- 
ify some  of  the  unfavorable  views  of  my  character 
which  you  are  freely  imparting  to  our  mutual  friends. 
What  ought  to  be  the  literary  man's  point  of  honor 
nowadays  ?  Suppose,  friendly  reader,  you  are  one  of 
the  craft,  what  legacy  would  you  like  to  leave  to  your 
children?  First  of  all  (and  by  Heaven's  gracious 
help)  you  would  pray  and  strive  to  give  them  such 
an  endowment  of  love  as  should  last  certainly  for  all 
their  lives,  and  perhaps  be  transmitted  to  their  chil- 
dren. You  would  (by  the  same  aid  and  blessing)  keep 
your  honor  pure,  and  transmit  a  name  unstained  to 
those  who  have  a  right  to  bear  it.  You  would — 
though  this  faculty  of  giving  is  one  of  the  easiest  of 
the  literary  man's  qualities — you  would,  out  of  your 
earnings,  small  or  great,  be  able  to  help  a  poor  broth- 
er in  need,  to  dress  his  wounds,  and,  if  it  were  but  two- 
pence, to  give  him  succor.  Is  the  money  which  the 
noble  Macaulay  gave  to  the  poor  lost  to  his  family  ? 


ON  A  JOKE  FKOM  THE  LATE  T.  HOOD.    125 

God  forbid.  To  the  loving  hearts  of  his  kindred  is  it 
not  rather  the  most  precious  part  of  their  inheritance  ? 
It  was  invested  in  love  and  righteous  doing,  and  it 
bears  interest  in  heaven.  You  will,  if  letters  be  your 
vocation,  find  saving  harder  than  giving  and  spending. 
To  save  be  your  endeavor  too  against  the  night's  com- 
ing when  no  man  may  work ;  when  the  arm  is  weary 
with  the  long  day's  labor;  when  the  brain  perhaps 
grows  dark ;  when  the  old,  who  can  labor  no  more, 
want  warmth  and  rest,  and  the  young  ones  call  ftp 
supper. 

I  copied  the  little  galley-slave  who  is  made  to  figure 
in  the  initial  letter  of  this  paper  from  a  quaint  old  sil- 
ver spoon  which  we  purchased  in  a  curiosity-shop  at 
the  Hague.  It  is  one  of  the  gift-spoons  so  common  in 
Holland,  and  which  have  multiplied  so  astonishingly 
of  late  years  at  our  dealers'  in  old  silver- ware.  Along 
the  stem  of  the  spoon  are  written  the  words,  "  Anno 
1609,  Bin  ich  aldus  ghehhdt  gheghaen" — "In  the  year 
1609  I  went  thus,  clad."  The  good  Dutchman  was 
released  from  his  Algerine  captivity  (I  imagine  his 
figure  looks  like  that  of  a  slave  among  the  Moors), 
and  in  his  thank-offering  to  some  godchild  at  home  he 
thus  piously  records  his  escape. 

Was  not  poor  Cervantes  also  a  captive  among  the 
Moors  ?  Did  not  Fielding,  and  Goldsmith,  and  Smol- 
lett too,  die  at  the  chain  as  well  as  poor  Hood? 
Think  of  Fielding  going  on  board  his  wretched  ship 
in  the  Thames,  with  scarce  a  hand  to  bid  him  fare- 
well ;  of  brave  Tobias  Smollett,  and  his  life,  how  hard, 
and  how  poorly  rewarded;    of  Goldsmith,  and  the 


126  EOUNDABOUT  PAPEKS. 

physician  whispering,  "  Have  you  something  on  your 
mind  ?"  and  the  wild,  dying  eyes  answering  Yes.  No- 
tice how  Boswell  speaks  of  Goldsmith,  and  the  splen- 
did contempt  with  which  he  regards  him.  Eead  Haw- 
kins on  Fielding,  and  the  scorn  with  which  Dandy 
Walpole  and  Bishop  Hurd  speak  of  him.  Galley- 
slaves  doomed  to  tug  the  oar  and  wear  the  chain, 
while  my  lords  and  dandies  take  their  pleasure,  and 
hear  fine  music  and  disport  with  fine  ladies  in  the 
cabin ! 

But  stay.  "Was  there  any  cause  for  this  scorn?  Had 
some  of  these  great  men  weaknesses  which  gave  infe- 
riors advantage  over  them  ?  Men  of  letters  can  not 
lay  their  hands  on  their  hearts  and  say,  "  No,  the  fault 
was  Fortune's  and  the  indifferent  world's,  not  Gold- 
smith's nor  Fielding's."  There  was  no  reason  why 
Oliver  should  always  be  thriftless ;  why  Fielding  and 
Steele  should  sponge  upon  their  friends;  why  Sterne 
should  make  love  to  his  neighbors'  wives.  Swift,  for 
a  long  time,  was  as  poor  as  any  wag  that  ever  laughed, 
but  he  owed  no  penny  to  his  neighbors;  Addison, 
when  he  wore  his  most  threadbare  coat,  could  hold 
his  head  up  and  maintain  his  dignity;  and  I  dare 
vouch  neither  of  those  gentlemen,  when  they  were 
ever  so  poor,  asked  any  man  alive  to  pity  their  con- 
dition, and  have  a  regard  to  the  weaknesses  incidental 
to  the  literary  profession.  Galley-slave,  forsooth !  If 
you  are  sent  to  prison  for  some  error  for  which  the 
law  awards  that  sort  of  laborious  seclusion,  so  much 
the  more  shame  for  you.  If  you  are  chained  to  the 
oar  a  prisoner  of  war,  like  Cervantes,  you  have  the 
pain,  but  not  the  shame,  and  the  friendly  compassion 


ON  A  JOKE  FROM  THE  LATE  T.  HOOD.    127 

of  mankind  to  reward  you.  Galley-slaves,  indeed! 
What  man  has  not  his  oar  to  pull?  There  is  that 
wonderful  old  stroke-oar  in  the  Queen's  galley.  How 
many  years  has  he  pulled  ?  Day  and  night,  in  rough 
water  or  smooth,  with  what  invincible  vigor  and  sur- 
prising gayety  he  plies  his  arms.  There  is  in  the  same 
Galere  Capitaine,  that  well-known,  trim  figure,  the  bow 
oar ;  how  he  tugs,  and  with  what  a  will !  How  both 
of  them  have  been  abused  in  their  time !  Take  the 
Lawyer's  galley,  and  that  dauntless  octogenarian  in 
command ;  when  has  he  ever  complained  or  repined 
about  his  slavery  ?  There  is  the  Priest's  galley — black 
and  lawn  sails — do  any  mariners  out  of  Thames  work 
harder?  When  lawyer,  and  statesman,  and  divine, 
and  writer  are  snug  in  bed,  there  is  a  ring  at  the  poor 
doctor's  bell.  Forth  he  must  go,  in  rheumatism  or 
snow ;  a  galley-slave  bearing  his  galley-pots  to  quench 
the  flames  of  fever,  to  succor  mothers  and  young  chil- 
dren in  their  hour  of  peril,  and,  as  gently  and  sooth- 
ingly as  may  be,  to  carry  the  hopeless  patient  over  to 
the  silent  shore.  And  have  we  not  just  read  of  the 
actions  of  the  Queen's  galleys,  and  their  brave  crews 
in  the  Chinese  waters  ?  Men  not  more  worthy  of  hu- 
man renown  and  honor  to-day  in  their  victory  than 
last  year  in  their  glorious  hour  of  disaster.  So  with 
stout  hearts  may  we  ply  the  oar,  mess-mates  all,  till 
the  voyage  is  over  and  the  Harbor  of  Rest  is  found. 


128 


ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 


ROUND  ABOUT  THE  CHRISTMAS-TREE. 


i! 


The  kindly  Christmas-tree,  from  which  I  trust  every 
gentle  reader  has  pulled  a  bonbon  or  two,  is  yet  all 


ROUND   ABOUT   THE   CHRISTMAS-TREE.  129 

aflame  while  I  am  writing,  and  sparkles  with  the  sweet 
fruits  of  its  season.  You  young  ladies,  may  you  have 
plucked  pretty  giftlings  from  it ;  and  out  of  the  crack- 
er sugar-plum  which  you  have  split  with  the  captain 
or  the  sweet  young  curate  may  you  have  read  one  qf 
those  delicious  conundrums  which  the  confectioners 
introduce  into  the  sweetmeats,  and  which  apply  to  the 
cunning  passion^>f  love.  Those  riddles  are  to  be  read 
at  your  age,  when  I  dare  say  they  are  amusing.  As 
for  Dolly,  Merry,  and  Bell,  who  are  standing  at  the 
tree,  they  don't  care  about  the  love-riddle  part,  but 
understand  the  sweet-almond  portion  very  well.  They 
are  four,  five,  six  years  old.  Patience,  little  people ! 
A  dozen  merry  Christmases  more,  and  you  will  be 
reading  those  wonderful  love  conundrums  too.  As 
for  us  elderly  folks,  we  watch  the  babies  at  their  sport, 
and  the  young  people  pulling  at  the  branches ;  and 
instead  of  finding  bonbons  or  sweeties  in  the  packets 
which  we  pluck  off  the  boughs,  we  find  inclosed  Mr. 
Carnifex's  review  of  the  quarter's  meat ;  Mr.  Sartor's 
compliments,  and  little  statement  for  self  and  the  young 
gentlemen ;  and  Madame  de  Sainte-Crinoline's  respects 
to  the  young  ladies,  who  incloses  her  account,  and  will 
send  on  Saturday,  please ;  or  we  stretch  our  hand  out 
to  the  educational  branch  of  the  Christmas-tree,  and 
there  find  a  lively  and  amusing  article  from  the  Rev. 
Henry  Holyshade,  containing  our  dear  Tommy's  ex- 
ceedingly moderate  account  for  the  last  term's  school 
expenses. 

The  tree  yet  sparkles,  I  say.  I  am  writing  on  the 
day  before  Twelfth  Day,  if  you  must  know ;  but  al- 
ready ever  so  many  of  the  fruits  have  been  pulled, 

F2 


130  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

and  the  Christmas  lights  have  gone  out.  Bobby  Mis- 
eltow,  who  has  been  staying  with  us  for  a  week  (and 
who  has  been  sleeping  mysteriously  in  the  bath-room), 
comes  to  say  he  is  going  away  to  spend  the  rest  of  the 
holidays  with  his  grandmother,  and  I  brush  away  the 
manly  tear  of  regret  as  I  part  with  the  dear  child. 
"  Well,  Bob,  good-by,  since  you  will  go.  Compliments 
to  grandmama.  Thank  her  for  the  turkey.  Here's — " 
(A  slight  'pecuniary  transaction  takes  place  at  this  junc- 
ture, and  Bob  nods  and  winks,  and  puts  his  hand  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket.)     u  You  have  had  a  pleasant" week?" 

Bob.  "Haven't  I!"  (And  exit,  anxious  to  know  the 
amount  of  the  coin  which  has  just  changed  hands.) 

He  is  gone,  and  as  the  dear  boy  vanishes  through 
the  door  (behind  which  I  see  him  perfectly),  I  too  cast 
up  a  little  account  of  our  past  Christmas  week.  When 
Bob's  holidays  are  over,  and  the  printer  has  sent  me 
back  this  manuscript,  I  know  Christmas  will  be  an  old 
story.  All  the  fruit  will  be  off  the  Christmas-tree 
then ;  the  crackers  will  have  cracked  off;  the  almonds 
will  have  been  crunched,  and  the  sweet-bitter  riddles 
will  have  been  read ;  the  lights  will  have  perished  off 
the  dark-green  boughs ;  the  toys  growing  on  them 
will  have  been  distributed,  fought  for,  cherished,  neg- 
lected, broken.  Ferdinand  and  Fidelia  will  each  keep 
out  of  it  (be  still,  my  gushing  heart !)  the  remembrance 
of  a  riddle  read  together,  of  a  double-almond  munch- 
ed together,  and  the  moiety  of  an  exploded  cracker. 
.  .  .  The  maids,  I  say,  will  have  taken  down  all 
that  holly  stuff  and  nonsense  about  the  clocks,  lamps, 
and  looking-glasses,  the  dear  boys  will  be  back  at 
school,  fondly  thinking  of  the  pantomime-fairies  whom 


ROUND   ABOUT   THE   CHRISTMAS-TREE.  131 

they  have  seen  ;  whose  gaudy  gossamer  wings  are  bat- 
tered by  this  time,  and  whose  pink  cotton  (or  silk  is 
it?)  lower  extremities  are  all  dingy  and  dusty.  Yet 
but  a  few  days,  Bob,  and  flakes  of  paint  will  have 
cracked  off  the  fairy  flower-bowers,  and  the  revolving 
temples  of  adamantine  lustre  will  be  as  shabby  as  the 
city  of  Pekin.  When  you  read  this,  will  Clown  still 
be  going  on  losing  his  tongue  out  of  his  mouth,  and 
saying,  "How  are  you  to-morrow?"  To-morrow,  in- 
deed !  He  must  be  almost  ashamed  of  himself  (if  that 
cheek  is  still  capable  of  the  blush  of  shame)  for  asking 
the  absurd  question.  To-morrow,  indeed!  To-mor- 
row the  diffugient  snows  will  give  place  to  Spring ; 
the  snow-drops  will  lift  their  heads ;  Lady-day  may  be 
expected,  and  the  pecuniary  duties  peculiar  to  that 
feast ;  in  place  of  bonbons,  trees  will  have  an  eruption 
of  light-green  knobs ;  the  whitebait  season  will  bloom 
.  .  .  as  if  one  need  go  on  describing  these  vernal 
phenomena,  when  Christmas  is  still  here,  though  end- 
ing, and  the  subject  of  my  discourse !  We  have  all 
admired  the  illustrated  papers,  and  noted  how  bois- 
terously jolly  they  become  at  Christmas-time.  What 
wassail  bowls,  robin  -  redbreasts,  waits,  snow-land- 
scapes, bursts  of  Christmas  song !  And  then  to  think 
that  these  festivities  are  prepared  months  before — 
that  these  Christmas  pieces  are  prophetic  !  How  kind 
of  artists  and  poets  to  devise  the  festivities  before- 
hand, and  serve  them  pat  at  the  proper  time !  We 
ought  to  be  grateful  to  them,  as  to  the  cook  who  gets 
up  at  midnight  and  sets  the  pudding  a-boiling  which 
is  to  feast  us  at  six  o'clock.  I  often  think  with  grati- 
tude of  the  famous  Mr.  Nelson  Lee — the  author  of  I 


132  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

don't  know  how  many  hundred  glorious  pantomimes 
— walking  by  the  summer  wave  at  Margate,  or  Brigh- 
ton perhaps,  revolving  in  his  mind  the  idea  of  some 
new  gorgeous  spectacle  of  faery  which  the  winter 
shall  see  complete.  He  is  like  cook  at  midnight  (si 
parva  licet).  He  watches  and  thinks.  He  pounds 
the  sparkling  sugar  of  benevolence,  the  plums  of  fan- 
cy, the  sweetmeats  of  fun,  the  figs  of — well,  the  figs 
of  fairy  fiction,  let  us  say,  and  pops  the  whole  in  the 
seething  caldron  of  imagination,  and  at  due  season 
serves  up  the  Pantomime. 

Yery  few  men  in  the  course  of  nature  can  expect  to 
see  all  the  pantomimes  in  one  season,  but  I  hope  to 
the  end  of  my  life  I  shall  never  forego  reading  about 
them  in  that  delicious  sheet  of  The  Times  which  ap- 
pears on  the  morning  after  Boxing-day.  Perhaps 
reading  is  even  better  than  seeing.  The  best  way,  I 
think,  is  to  say  you  are  ill,  lie  in  bed,  and  have  the  pa- 
per for  two  hours,  reading  all  the  way  down  from  Dru- 
ry  Lane  to  the  Britannia  at  Hoxton.  Bob  and  I  went 
to  two  pantomimes.  One  was  at  the  Theatre  of  Fan- 
cy, and  the  other  was  at  the  Fairy  Opera,  and  I  don't 
know  which  we  liked  the  best. 

At  the  Fancy  we  saw  Harlequin  Hamlet,  or  Daddy's 
Ghost  and  Nunhfs  Pison,  which  is  all  very  well ;  but, 
gentlemen,  if  you  don't  respect  Shakspeare,  to  whom 
will  you  be  civil  ?  The  palace  and  ramparts  of  Elsi- 
nore  by  moon  an^d  snow-light  is  one  of  Louth erbourg's 
finest  efforts.  The  banqueting-hall  of  the  palace  is  il- 
luminated; the  peaks  and  gables  glitter  with  the 
snow ;  the  sentinels  march  blowing  their  fingers  with 
the  cold — the  freezing  of  the  nose  of  one  of  them  is 


ROUND   ABOUT  THE   CHRISTMAS-TREE.  133 

very  neatly  and  dextrously  arranged  ;  the  snow-storm 
rises ;  the  winds  howl  awfully  along  the  battlements ; 
the  waves  come  curling,  leaping,  foaming  to  shore. 
Hamlet's  umbrella  is  whirled  away  in  the  storm.  He 
and  his  two  friends  stamp  on  each  other's  toes  to  keep 
them  warm.  The  storm-spirits  rise  in  the  air,  and 
are  whirled  howling  round  the  palace  and  therrocks. 
My  eyes!  what  tiles  and  chimney-pots  fly  hurtling 
through  the  air!  As  the  storm  reaches  its  height 
(here  the  wind-instruments  come  in  with  prodigious 
effect,  and' I  compliment  Mr.  Brumby  and  the  violon- 
cellos)— as  the  snow-storm  rises  (queek,  queek,  queek, 
go  the  fiddles,  and  then  thrumpty/thrump  comes  a  piz- 
zicato movement  in  Bob  Major,  which  sends  a  shiver 
into  your  very  boot-soles),  the  thunder-clouds  deepen 
(bong,  bong,  bong,  from  the  violoncellos).  The  fork- 
ed lightning  quivers  through  the  clouds  in  a  zigzag 
scream  of  violins  —  and  look!  look!  look!  as  the 
frothing,  roaring  waves  come  rushing  up  the  battle- 
ments and  over  the  reeling  parapet,  each  hissing  wave 
becomes  a  ghost,  sends  the  gun-carriages  rolling  over 
the  platform,  and  plunges  howling  into  the  water 
again. 

Hamlet's  mother  comes  on  to  the  battlements  to 
look  for  her  son.  The  storm  whips  her  umbrella  out 
of  her  hands,  and  she  retires  screaming  in  pattens. 

The  cabs  on  the  stand  in  the  great  market-place  at 
Elsinore  are  seen  to  drive  off,  and  several  people  are 
drowned.  The  gas-lamps  along  the  street  are  wrench- 
ed from  their  foundations,  and  shoot  through  the  troub- 
led air.  Whish !  rush !  hish !  how  the  rain  roars  and 
pours !     The  darkness  becomes  awful,  always  deepen- 


134  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

ed  by  the  power  of  the  music;  and  see!  in  the  midst  of 
a  rush,  and  whirl,  and  scream  of  spirits  of  air  and  wave, 
what  is  that  ghastly  figure  moving  hither?  It  becomes 
bigger,  bigger,  as  it  advances  down  the  platform  — 
more  ghastly,  more  horrible,  enormous !  It  is  as  tall 
as  the  whole  stage.  It  seems  to  be  advancing  on  the 
stalls  and  pit,  and  the  whole  house  screams  with  ter- 
ror as  the  Ghost  of  the  late  Hamlet  comes  in  and 
begins  to  speak.  Several  people  faint,  and  the  light- 
fingered  gentry  pick  pockets  furiously  in  the  darkness. 

In  the  pitchy  darkness,  this  awful  figure  throwing 
his  eyes  about,  the  gas  in  the  boxes  shuddering  out  of 
sight,  and  the  wind-instruments  bugling  the  most  hor- 
rible wails,  the  boldest  spectator  must  have  felt  fright- 
ened. But  hark !  what  is  that  silver  shimmer  of  the 
fiddles !  Is  it — can  it  be — the  gray  dawn  peeping  in 
the  stormy  east?  The  ghost's  eyes  look  blankly  to- 
ward it,  and  roll  a  ghastly  agony.  Quicker,  quicker 
ply  the  violins  of  Phoebus  Apollo.  Eedder,  redder 
grow  the  orient  clouds.  Cockadoodloodloo !  crows 
that  great  cock  which  has  just  come  out  on  the  roof 
of  the  palace.  And  now  the  round  sun  himself  pops 
up  from  behind  the  waves  of  night.  Where  is  the 
ghost?  He  is  gone !  Purple  shadows  of  morn  "  slant 
o'er  the  snowy  sward,"  the  city  wakes  up  in  life  and 
sunshine,  and  we  confess  we  are  very  much  relieved 
at  the  disappearance  of  the  ghost.  "We  don't  like 
those  dark  scenes  in  pantomimes. 

After  the  usual  business,  that  Ophelia  should  be 
turned  into  Columbine  was  to  be  expected ;  but  I  con- 
fess I  was  a  little  shocked  when  Hamlet's  mother  be- 
came Pantaloon,  and  was  instantly  knocked  down  by 


ROUND   ABOUT  THE   CHRISTMAS-TREE.  135 

Clown  Claudius.  Grimaldi  is  getting  a  little  old  now, 
but  for  real  humor  there  are  few  clowns  like  him. 
Mr.  Shuter,  as  the  grave-digger,  was  chaste  and  comic, 
as  he  always  is,  and  the  scene-painters  surpassed  them- 
selves. 

Harlequin  Conqueror  and  the  Field  of  Hastings,  at  the 
other  house,  is  very  pleasant  too.  The  irascible  Will- 
iam is  acted  with  very  great  vigor  by  Snoxall,  and 
the  battle  of  Hastings  is  a  good  piece  of  burlesque. 
Some  trifling  liberties  are  taken  with  history,  but  what 
liberties  will  not  the  merry  genius  of  pantomime  per- 
mit himself?  At  the  battle  of  Hastings,  William  is 
on  the  point  of  being  defeated  by  the  Sussex  volun- 
teers, very  elegantly  led  by  the  always  pretty  Miss 
Waddy  (as  Haco  Sharpshooter),  when  a  shot  from  the 
Normans  kills  Harold.  The  fairy  Edith  hereupon 
comes  forward,  and  finds  his  body,  which  straightway 
leaps  up  a  live  harlequin,  while  the  Conqueror  makes 
an  excellent  clown,  and  the  Archbishop  of  Bayeux  a 
diverting  pantaloon,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

Perhaps  these  are  not  the  pantomimes  we  really 
saw ;  but  one  description  will  do  as  well  as  another. 
The  plots,  you  see,  are  a  little  intricate  and  difficult  to 
understand  in  pantomimes,  and  I  may  have  mixed  up 
one  with  another.  That  I  was  at  the  theatre  on  Box- 
ing-night is  certain,  but  the  pit  was  so  full  that  I  could 
only  see  fairy  legs  glittering  in  the  distance  as  I  stood 
at  the  door.  And  if  I  was  badly  off,  I  think  there  was 
a  young  gentleman  behind  me  worse  off  still.  I  own 
that  he  has  good  reason  (though  others  have  not)  to 
speak  ill  of  me  behind  my  back,  and  hereby  beg  his 
pardon. 


136  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

Likewise  to  the  gentleman  who  picked  up  a  party 
in  Piccadilly,  who  had  slipped  and  fallen  in  the  snow, 
and  was  there  on  his  back  uttering  energetic  expres- 
sions; that  party  begs  to  offer  thanks,  and  compli- 
ments of  the  season. 

Bob's  behavior  on  New- Year's  day,  I  can  assure  Dr. 
Holyshade,  was  highly  creditable  to  the  boy.  He  had 
expressed  a  determination  to  partake  of  every  dish 
which  was  put  on  the  table ;  but  after  soup,  fish,  roast 
beef,  and  roast  goose,  he  retired  from  active  business 
until  the  pudding  and  mince-pies  made  their  appear- 
ance, of  which  he  partook  liberally,  but  not  too  freely. 
And  he  greatly  advanced  in  my  good  opinion  by  prais- 
ing the  punch,  which  was  of  my  own  manufacture, 
and  which  some  gentlemen  present  (Mr.  O'M — g — n, 
among  others)  pronounced  to  be  too  weak.  Too  weak ! 
A  bottle  of  rum,  a  bottle  of  Madeira,  half  a  bottle  of 
brandy,  and  two  bottles  and  a  half  of  water — can  this 
mixture  be  said  to  be  too  weak  for  any  mortal  ?  Our 
young  friend  amused  the  company  during  the  even- 
ing by  exhibiting  a  two-shilling  magic  lantern  which 
he  had  purchased,  and  likewise  by  singing  "Sally, 
come  up !"  a  quaint  but  rather  monotonous  melody, 
which  I  am  told  is  sung  by  the  poor  negro  on  the 
banks  of  the  broad  Mississip. 

"What  other  enjoyments  did  we  proffer  for  the  child's 
amusement  during  the  Christmas  week?  A  great 
philosopher  was  giving  a  lecture  to  young  folks  at  the 
British  Institution.  But  when  this  diversion  was  pro- 
posed to  our  young  friend  Bob,  he  said,  "Lecture? 
No,  thank  you.  Not  as  I  knows  on,"  and  made  sar- 
castic signals  on  his  nose.     Perhaps  he  is  of  Dr.  John- 


ROUND  ABOUT  THE  CHRISTMAS-TREE.  137 

son's  opinion  about  lectures :  "  Lectures,  sir !  what  man 
would  go  to  hear  that  imperfectly  at  a  lecture  which 
he  can  read  at  leisure  in  a  book?"  /never  went,  of 
my  own  choice,  to  a  lecture,  that  I  can  vow.  As  for 
sermons,  they  are  different;  I  delight  in  them,  and 
they  can  not,  of  course,  be  too  long. 

Well,  we  partook  of  yet  other  Christmas  delights 
besides  pantomine,  pudding,  and  pie.  One  glorious, 
one  delightful,  one  most  unlucky  and  pleasant  day,  we 
drove  in  a  brougham,  with  a  famous  horse,  which  car- 
ried us  more  quickly  and  briskly  than  any  of  your 
vulgar  railways  over  Battersea  Bridge,  on  which  the 
horse's  hoofs  rung  as  if  it  had  been  iron  ;  through  sub- 
urban villages,  plum-caked  with  snow ;  under  a  lead- 
en sky,  in  which  the  sun  hung  like  a  red-hot  warm- 
ing-pan ;  by  pond  after  pond,  where  not  only  men  and 
boys,  but  scores  after  scores  of  women  and  girls,  were 
sliding,  and  roaring,  and  clapping  their  lean  old  sides 
with  laughter  as  they  tumbled  down,  and  their  hob- 
nailed shoes  flew  up  in  the  air ;  the  air  frosty  with  a 
lilac  haze,  through  which  villas,  and  commons,  and 
churches,  and  plantations  glimmered.  We  drive  up 
the  hill,  Bob  and  I ;  we  make  the  last  two  miles  in 
eleven  minutes ;  we  pass  that  poor,  armless  man  who 
sits  there  in  the  cold,  following  you  with  his  eyes.  I 
don't  give  any  thing,  and  Bob  looks  disappointed. 
We  are  set  down  neatly  at  the  gate,  and  a  horse-hold- 
er opens  the  brougham  door,  I  don't  give  any  thing ; 
again  disappointment  on  Bob's  part.  I  pay  a  shilling 
apiece,  and  we  enter  into  the  glorious  building,  which 
is  decorated  for  Christmas,  and  straightway  forgetful- 
ness  on  Bob's  part  of  every  thing  but  that  magnificent 


138  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

scene.  The  enormous  edifice  is  all  decorated  for  Bob 
and  Christmas.  The  stalls,  the  columns,  the  fount- 
ains, courts,  statues,  splendors,  are  all  crowned  for 
Christmas.  The  delicious  negro  is  singing  his  Ala- 
bama choruses  for  Christmas  and  Bob.  He  has  scarce- 
ly done,  when  Tootarootatoo  !  Mr.  Punch  is  perform- 
ing his  surprising  actions,  and  hanging  the  beadle. 
The  stalls  are  decorated.  The  refreshment  tables  are 
piled  with  good  things  ;  at  many  fountains  "  Mulled 
Claret"  is  written  up  in  appetizing  capitals.  "  Mull- 
ed claret — oh, jolly!  How  cold  it  is!"  says  Bob;  I 
pass  on.  "  It's  only  three  o'clock,"  says  Bob.  "  No, 
only  three,"  I  say,  meekly.  "  We  dine  at  seven,"  sighs 
Bob,  "and  it's  so-o-o  coo-old."  I  still  would  take  no 
hints.  No  claret,  no  refreshment,  no  sandwiches,  no 
sausage-rolls  for  Bob.  At  last  I  am  obliged  to  tell 
him  all.  Just  before  we  left  home,  a  little  Christmas 
bill  popped  in  at  the  door  and  emptied  my  purse  at 
the  threshold.  I  forgot  all  about  the  transaction,  and 
had  to  borrow  half  a  crown  from  John  Coachman  to 
pay  for  our  entrance  into  the  palace  of  delight.  Now 
you  see,  Bob,  why  I  could  not  treat  you  on  that  sec- 
ond of  January  when  we  drove  to  the  palace  togeth- 
er ;  when  the  girls  and  boys  were  sliding  on  the  ponds 
at  Dulwich ;  when  the  darkling  river  was  full  of  float- 
ing ice,  and  the  sun  was  like  a  warming-pan  in  the 
leaden  sky. 

One  more  Christmas  sight  we  had,  of  course,  and 
that  sight  I  think  I  like  as  well  as  Bob  himself  at 
Christmas,  and  at  all  seasons.  We  went  to  a  certain 
garden  of  delight,  where,  whatever  your  cares  are,  I 
think  you  can  manage  to  forget  some  of  them,  and 


ROUND   ABOUT  THE   CHRISTMAS-TREE.  139 

muse,  and  be  not  unhappy;  to  a  garden  beginning 
with  a  Z,  which  is  as  lively  as  Noah's  ark ;  where  the 
fox  has  brought  his  brush,  and  the  cock  has  brought 
his  comb,  and  the  elephant  has  brought  his  trunk,  and 
the  kangaroo  has  brought  his  bag,  and  the  condor  his 
old  white  wig  and  black  satin  hood.     On  this  day  it 
was  so  cold  that  the  white  bears  winked  their  pink 
eyes  as  they  plapped  up  and  down  by  their  pool,  and 
seemed  to  say,  "  Aha !  this  weather  reminds  us  of  dear 
home !"    "  Cold !  bah !  I  have  got  such  a  warm  coat," 
says  Brother  Bruin,  "  I  don't  mind ;"  and  he  laughs 
on  his  pole,  and  clucks  down  a  bun.     The  squealing 
hyenas  gnashed  their  teeth  and  laughed  at  us  quite 
refreshingly  at  their  window ;  and,  cold  as  it  was,  Ti- 
ger, Tiger,  burning  bright,  glared  at  us  red-hot  through 
his  bars,  and  snorted  blasts  of  hell.     The  woolly  cam- 
el leered  at  us  quite  kindly  as  he  paced  round  his  ring 
on  his  silent  pads.     We  went  to  our  favorite  places. 
Our  dear  wambat  came  up,  and  had  himself  scratched 
very  affably.     Our  fellow-creatures  in  the  monkey- 
room  held  out  their  little  black  hands,  and  piteously 
asked  us  for  Christmas  alms.     Those  darling  alliga- 
tors on  their  rock  winked  at  us  in  the  most  friendly 
way.     The  solemn  eagles  sat  alone,  and  scowled  at  us 
from  their  peaks,  while  little  Tom  Eatel  tumbled  over 
head  and  heels  for  us  in  his  usual  diverting  manner. 
If  I  have  cares  in  my  mind,  I  come  to  the  Zoo,  and 
fancy  they  don't  pass   the   gate.      I  recognize   my 
friends,  my  enemies,  in  countless  cages.     I  entertained 
the  eagle,  the  vulture,  the  old  billy-goat,  and  the  black- 
pated,  crimson-necked,  blear-eyed,  baggy,  hook-beak- 
ed, old  marabou  stork  yesterday  at  dinner ;  and  when 


140  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

Bob's  aunt  came  to  tea  in  the  evening,  and  asked  him 
what  he  had  seen,  he  stepped  up  to  her  gravely,  and 
said, 

''First  I  saw  the  white  bear,  then  I  saw  the  black, 
Then  I  saw  the  camel  with  a  hump  upon  his  back. 

Child  era    I  Then  I  saw  the  camel  with  a  hump  upon  his  back ! 
Then  I  saw  the  gray  wolf,  with  mutton  in  his  maw ; 
Then  I  saw  the  wambat  waddle  in  the  straw ; 
Then  I  saw  the  elephant  with  his  waving  trunk, 
Then  I  saw  the  monkeys — mercy,  how  unpleasantly 
they — smelt !" 

There.  No  one  can  beat  that  piece  of  wit,  can  he, 
Bob  ?  And  so  it  is  all  over ;  but  we  had  a  jolly  time 
while  you  were  with  us,  hadn't  we  ?  Present  my  re- 
spects to  the  doctor;  and  I  hope,  my  boy,  we  may 
spend  another  merry  Christmas  next  year. 


ON  A  CHALK-MARK  ON  THE   DOOR. 


141 


ON  A  CHALK-MARK  ON  THE  DOOR. 


N  the  door-post 
of  the  house  of 
a  friend  of  mine, 
a  few  inches 
above  the  lock, 
is  a  little  chalk-  • 
mark,  which 
some  sportive 
boy  in  passing- 
has  probably 
scratched  on  the 
pillar.  The  door- 
steps, the  lock, 
handle,  etc.,  are 
kept  decently 
enough ;  but  this 
chalk  -  mark,  I 
suppose  some  three  inches  out  of  the  housemaid's  beat, 
has  already  been  on  the  door  for  more  than  a  fort- 
night, and  I  wonder  whether  it  will  be  there  while 
this  paper  is  being  written,  while  it  is  at  the  printer's, 
and,  in  fine,  until  the  month  passes  over  ?  I  wonder 
whether  the  servants  in  that  house  will  read  these  re- 
marks about  the  chalk -mark?  That  the  Cornhill 
Magazine  is  taken  in  in  that  house  I  know.     In  fact, 


142  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

I  have  seen  it  there.  In  fact,  I  have  read  it  there.  In 
fact,  I  have  written  it  there.  In  a  word,  the  house  to 
which  I  allude  is  mine — the  "editor's  private  resi- 
dence," to  which,  in  spite  of  prayers,  entreaties,  com- 
mands, and  threats,  authors,  and  ladies  especially,  will 
send  their  communications,  although  they  won't  un- 
derstand that  they  injure  their  own  interests  by  so  do- 
ing ;  for  how  is  a  man  who  has  his  own  work  to  do, 
his  own  exquisite  inventions  to  form  and  perfect — 
Maria  to  rescue  from  the  unprincipled  earl — the  atro- 
cious general  to  confound  in  his  own  machinations — 
the  angelic  dean  to  promote  to  a  bishopric,  and  so 
forth — -how  is  a  man  to  do  all  this  under  a  hundred 
interruptions,  and  keep  his  nerves  and  temper  in  that 
just  and  equable  state  in  which  they  ought  to  be 
when  he  comes  to  assume  the  critical  office  ?  As  you 
will  send  here,  ladies,  I  must  tell  you  you  have  a  much 
worse  chance  than  if  you  forward  your  valuable  arti- 
cles to  Cornhill.  Here  your  papers  arrive,  at  dinner- 
time, we  will  say.  Do  you  suppose  that  is  a  pleasant 
period,  and  that  we  are  to  criticise  you  between  the 
ovum  and  malum,  between  the  soup  and  the  dessert  ? 
I  have  touched,  I  think,  on  this  subject  before.  I  say' 
again,  if  you  want  real  justice  shown  you,  don't  send 
your  papers  to  the  private  residence.  At  home,  for 
instance,  yesterday,  having  given  strict  orders  that  I 
was  to  receive  nobody,  "  except  on  business,"  do  you 
suppose  a  smiling  young  Scottish  gentleman,  who 
forced  himself  into  my  study,  and  there  announced 
himself  as  agent  of  a  Cattle-food  Company,  was  re- 
ceived with  pleasure?  There,  as  I  sat  in  my  arm- 
chair, suppose  he  had  proposed  to  draw  a  couple  of 


ON   A   CHALK-MARK   ON   THE   DOOR.  143 

my  teeth,  would  I  have  been  pleased  ?  I  could  have 
throttled  that  agent.  I  dare  say  the  whole  of  that 
day's  work  will  be  found  tinged  with  a  ferocious  mis- 
anthropy, occasioned  by  my  clever  young  friend's  in- 
trusion. Cattle-food,  indeed !  As  if  beans,  oats,  warm 
mashes,  and  a  ball,  are  to  be  pushed  down  a  man's 
throat  just  as  he  is  meditating  on  the  great  social  prob- 
lem, or  (for  I  think  it  was  my  epic  I  was  going  to 
touch  up)  just  as  he  was  about  to  soar  to  the  height 
of  the  empyrean ! 

Having  got  my  cattle-agent  out  of  the  door,  I  re- 
sume my  consideration  of  that  little  mark  on  the  door- 
post, which  is  scored  up  as  the  text  of  the  present  lit- 
tle sermon,  and  which  I  hope  will  relate,  not  to  chalk, 
nor  to  any  of  its  special  uses  or  abuses  (such  as  milk, 
neckpowder,  and  the  like),  but  to  servants.  Surely 
ours  might  remove  that  unseemly  little  mark  ?  Sup- 
pose it  were  on  my  coat,  might  I  not  request  its  re- 
moval ?  I  remember,  when  I  was  at  school,  a  little 
careless  boy,  upon  whose  forehead  an  ink-mark  re- 
mained, and  was  perfectly  recognizable  for  three  weeks 
after  its  first  appearance.  May  I  take  any  notice  of 
this  chalk-stain  on  the  forehead  of  my  house  ?  Whose 
business  is  it  to  wash  that  forehead?  and  ought  I  to 
fetch  a  brush  and  a  little  hot  water,  and  wash  it  off 
myself? 

Yes.  But  that  spot  removed,  why  not  come  down 
at  six,  and  wash  the  door-steps  ?  I  dare  say  the  early 
rising  and  exercise  would  do  me  a  great  deal  of  good. 
The  house-maid,  in  that  case,  might  lie  in  bed  a  little 
later,  and  have  her  tea  and  the  morning  paper  brought 
to  her  in  bed ;  then,  of  course,  Thomas  would  expect 


144  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

to  be  helped  about  the  boots  and  knives ;  cook  about 
the  sauce-pans,  dishes,  and  what  not ;  the  lady's-maid 
would  want  somebody  to  take  the  curl-papers  out  of 
her  hair,  and  get  her  bath  ready.  You  should  have  a 
set  of  servants  for  the  servants,  and  these  under-serv- 
ants  should  have  slaves  to  wait  on  them.  The  king 
commands  the  first  lord  in  waiting  to  desire  the  sec- 
ond lord  to  intimate  to  the  gentleman  usher  to  request 
the  page  of  the  antechamber  to  entreat  the  groom  of 
the  stairs  to  implore  John  to  ask  the  captain  of  the 
buttons  to  desire  the  maid  of  the  still-room  to  beg  the 
housekeeper  to  give  out  a  few  more  lumps  of  sugar, 
as  his  majesty  has  none  for  his  coffee,  which  probably 
is  getting  cold  during  the  negotiation.  In  our  little 
Brentfords  we  are  all  kings  more  or  less.  There  are 
orders,  gradations,  hierarchies  every  where.  In  your 
house  and  mine  there  are  mysteries  unknown  to  us. 
I  am  not  going  into  the  horrid  question  of  "  followers." 
I  don't  mean  cousins  from  the  country,  love-stricken 
policemen,  or  gentlemen  in  mufti  from  Knightsbridge 
Barracks ;  but  people  who  have  an  occult  right  on  the 
premises ;  the  uncovenanted  servants  of  the  house ; 
gray  women  who  are  seen  at  evening  with  baskets 
flitting  about  area-railings  ;  dingy  shawls  which  drop 
you  furtive  courtesies  in  your  neighborhood ;  demure 
little  Jacks,  who  start  up  from  behind  boxes  in  the 
pantry.  These  outsiders  wear  Thomas's  crest  and  liv- 
ery, and  call  him  "Sir;"  those  silent  women  address 
the  female  servants  as  "  Mum,"  and  courtesy  before 
them,  squaring  their  arms  over  their  wretched  lean 
aprons.  Then,  again,  those  servi  servorum  have  de- 
pendents in   the  vast,  silent,  poverty-stricken  world 


ON   A   CHALK-MARK   ON   THE   DOOR.  145 

outside  your  comfortable  kitchen  fire,  in  the  world  of 
darkness,  and  hunger,  and  miserable  cold,  and  dank, 
flagged  cellars,  and  huddled  straw,  and  rags,  in  which 
pale  children  are  swarming.  It  may  be  your  beer 
(which  runs  with  great  volubility)  has  a  pipe  or  two 
which  communicates  with  those  dark  caverns  where 
hopeless  anguish  pours  the  groan,  and  would  scarce 
see  light  but  for  a  scrap  or  two  of  candle  which  has 
been  whipped  away  from  your  worship's  kitchen. 
JSTot  many  years  ago — I  don't  know  whether  before  or 
since  that  white  mark  was  drawn  on  the  door —  a  lady 
occupied  the  confidential  place  of  house-maid  in  this 
"private  residence,"  who  brought  a  good  character, 
who  seemed  to  have  a  cheerful  temper,  whom  I  used  to 
hear  clattering  and  bumping  overhead  or  on  the  stairs 
long  before  daylight — there,  I  say,  was  poor  Camilla, 
scouring  the  plain,  trundling  and  brushing,  and  clat- 
tering with  her  pans  and  brooms,  and  humming  at 
her  work.  Well,  she  had  established  a  smuggling 
communication  of  beer  over  the  area  frontier.  This 
neat-handed  Phyllis  used  to  pack  up  the  nicest  bask- 
ets of  my  provender,  and  convey  them  to  somebody 
outside — I  believe,  on  my  conscience,  to  some  poor 
friend  in  distress.  Camilla  was  consigned  to  her  doom. 
She  was  sent  back  to  her  friends  in  the  country ;  and 
when  she  was  gone  we  heard  of  many  of  her  faults. 
She  expressed  herself,  when  displeased,  in  language 
that  I  shall  not  repeat.  As  for  the  beer  and  meat, 
there  was  no  mistake  about  them.  But  aprh  ?  Can 
I  have  the  heart  to  be  very  angry  with  that  poor  jade 
for  helping  another  poorer  jade  out  of  my  larder  ?  On 
your  honor  and  conscience,  when  you  were  a  boy, 
G 


146  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

and  the  apples  looked  temptingly  over  Farmer  Quar- 
ringdon's  hedge,  did  you  never —  ?  When  there  was 
a  grand  dinner  at  home,  and  you  were  sliding,  with 
Master  Bacon,  up  and  down  the  stairs,  and  the  dishes 
came  out,  did  you  ever  do  such  a  thing  as  just  to — ? 
Well,  in  many  and  many  a  respect  servants  are  like 
children.  They  are  under  domination.  They  are 
subject  to  reproof,  to  ill  temper,  to  petty  exactions, 
and  stupid  tyrannies,  not  seldom.  They  scheme,  con- 
spire, fawn,  and  are  hypocrites.  "  Little  boys  should 
not  loll  on  chairs."  "  Little  girls  should  be  seen  and 
not  heard ;"  and  so  forth.  Have  we  not  almost  all 
learned  these  expressions  of  old  foozles,  and  uttered 
them  ourselves  when  in  the  square-toed  state  ?  The 
Eton  master,  who  was  breaking  a  lance  with  our  pa- 
terfamilias of  late,  turned  on  paterfamilias,  saying,  He 
knows  not  the  nature  and  exquisite  candor  of  well- 
bred  English  boys.  Exquisite  fiddlestick's  end,  Mr. 
Master !  Do  you  mean  for  to  go  for  to  tell  us  that  the 
relations  between  young  gentlemen  and  their  school- 
masters are  entirely  frank  and  cordial ;  that  the  lad  is 
familiar  with  the  man  who  can  have  him  flogged; 
never  shirks  his  exercises ;  never  gets  other  boys  to 
do  his  verses;  never  does  other  boys'  verses;  nev- 
er breaks  bounds ;  never  tells  fibs — I  mean  the  fibs 
permitted  by  scholastic  honor  ?  Did  I  know  of  a  boy 
who  pretended  to  such  a  character,  I  would  forbid  my 
scape-graces  to  keep  company  with  him.  Did  I  know 
a  schoolmaster  who  pretended  to  believe  in  the  ex- 
istence of  many  hundred  such  boys  in  one  school 
at  one  time,  I  would  set  that  man  down  as  a  baby  in 
knowledge  of  the  world.      "  Who  was  making  that 


ON  A  CHALK-MARK  ON  THE  DOOR.       147 

noise  ?"  "  I  don't  know,  sir."  And  he  knows  it  was  the 
boy  next  him  in  school.  "Who  was  climbing  over 
that  wall  ?"  "  I  don't  know,  sir."  And  it  is  in  the 
speaker's  own  trowsers,  very  likely,  the  glass  bottle- 
tops  have  left  their  cruel  scars.  And  so  with  serv- 
ants. "Who  ate  up  the  three  pigeons  which  went 
down  in  the  pigeon-pie  at  breakfast  this  morning?" 
"  Oh  dear  me !  sir,  it  was  John,  who  went  away  last 
month !"  or,  "  I  think  it  was  Miss  Mary's  canary-bird, 
which  got  out  of  the  cage,  and  is  so  fond  of  pigeons 
it  never  can  have  enough  of  them."  Yes,  it  was  the 
canary-bird ;  and  Eliza  saw  it ;  and  Eliza  is  ready  to 
vow  she  did.  These  statements  are  not  true,  but 
please  don't  call  them  lies.  This  is  not  lying;  this  is 
voting  with  your  party.  You  must  back  your  own 
side.  The  servants'  hall  stands  by  the  servants'  hall 
against  the  dining-room.  The  school-boys  don't  tell 
tales  of  each  other.  They  agree  not  to  choose  to 
know  who  has  made  the  noise,  who  has  broken  the 
window,  who  has  eaten  up  the  pigeons,  who  has 
picked  all  the  plovers'  eggs  out  of  the  aspic,  how 
it  is  that  liqueur  brandy  of  Gledstanes  is  in  such 
porous  glass  bottles,  and  so  forth.  Suppose  Brutus 
had  a  footman  who  came  and  told  him  that  the  but- 
ler drank  the  Curacoa,  which  of  these  servants  would 
you  dismiss?  the  butler,  perhaps,  but  the  footman 
certainly. 

No.  If  your  plate  and  glass  are  beautifully  bright, 
your  bell  quickly  answered,  and  Thomas  ready,  neat, 
and  good-humored,  you  are  not  to  expect  absolute 
truth  from  him.  The  very  obsequiousness  and  per- 
fection of  his  service  prevents  truth.     He  may  be  ever 


148  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

so  unwell  in  mind  or  body,  and  he  must  go  through 
his  service— hand  the  shining  plate,  replenish  the 
spotless  glass,  lay  the  glittering  fork — never  laugh 
when  you  yourself  or  your  guests  joke — be  profound- 
ly attentive,  and  yet  look  utterly  impassive — exchange 
a  few  hurried  curses  at  the  door  with  that  unseen 
slavey  who  ministers  without,  and  with  you  be  per- 
fectly calm  and  polite.  If  you  are  ill,  he  will  come 
twenty  times  in  an  hour  to  your  bell ;  or  leave  the 
girl  of  his  heart — his  mother,  who  is  going  to  Amer- 
ica— his  dearest  friend,  who  has  come  to  say  fare- 
well— his  lunch,  and  his  glass  of  beer  just  freshly 
poured  out — any  or  all  of  these,  if  the  door-bell  rings, 
or  the  master  calls  out  "  Thomas  "  from  the  hall.  Do 
you  suppose  you  can  expect  absolute  candor  from  a 
man  whom  you  may  order  to  powder  his  hair?  As 
between  the  Rev.  Henry  Holyshade  and  his  pupil  the 
idea  of  entire  unreserve  is  utter  bosh,  so  the  truth  as  be- 
tween you  and  Jeames  or  Thomas,  or  Mary  the  house- 
maid, or  Betty  the  cook,  is  relative,  and  not  to  be  de- 
manded on  one  side  or  the  other.  Why,  respectful  ci- 
vility is  itself  a  lie,  which  poor  Jeames  often  has  to  ut- 
ter or  perform  to  many  a  swaggering  vulgarian,  who 
should  black  Jeames's  boots,  did  Jeames  wear  them  and 
not  shoes.  There  is  your  little  Tom,  just  ten,  order- 
ing the  great,  large,  quiet,  orderly  young  man  about — 
shrieking  calls  for  hot  water — bullying  Jeames  because 
the  boots  are  not  varnished  enough,  or  ordering  him  to 
go  to  the  stables  and  ask  Jenkins  why  the  deuce  Tom- 
kins  hasn't  brought  his  pony  round — or  what  you 
will.  There  is  mamma  rapping  the  knuckles  of  Pin- 
cot  the  lady's-maid,  and  little  miss  scolding  Martha, 


ON  A  CHALK-MARK  ON  THE   DOOR.  149 

who  waits  up  five  pair  of  stairs  in  the  nursery.  Lit- 
tle miss,  Tommy,  papa,  mamma,  you  all  expect  from 
Martha,  from  Pincot,  from  Jenkins,  from  Jeames,  ob- 
sequious civility  and  willing  service.  My  dear,  good 
people,  you  can't  have  truth  too.  Suppose  you  ask 
for  your  newspaper,  and  Jeames  says,  "  I'm  reading  it, 
and  jest  beg  not  to  be  disturbed ;"  or  suppose  you  ask 
for  a  can  of  water,  and  he  remarks,  "  You  great,  big, 
'ulking  fellar,  ain't  you  big  enough  to  bring  it  hup 
yoursulf?"  what  would  your  feelings  be?  Now,  if 
you  made  similar  proposals  or  requests  to  Mr.  Jones 
next  door,  this  is  the  kind  of  an  answer  Jones  would 
give  you.  You  get  truth  habitually  from  equals  only ; 
so  my  good  Mr.  Holyshade,  don't  talk  to  me  about 
the  habitual  candor  of  the  young  Etonian  of  high 
birth,  or  I  have  my  own  opinion  of  your  candor  or 
discernment  when  you  do.  No ;  Tom  Bowling  is  the 
soul  of  honor,  and  has  been  true  to  Black-eyed  Syou- 
san  since  the  last  time  they  parted  at  Wapping  Old 
Stairs ;  but  do  you  suppose  Tom  is  perfectly  frank, 
familiar,  and  above-board  in  his  conversation  with 
Admiral  Nelson,  K.C.B.  ?  There  are  secrets,  pre- 
varications, fibs,  if  you  will,  between  Tom  and  the  ad- 
miral— between  your  crew  and  their  captain.  I  know 
I  hire  a  worthy,  clean,  agreeable,  and  conscientious 
male  or  female  hypocrite,  at  so  many  guineas  a  year, 
to  do  so  and  so  for  me.  Were  he  other  than  hypo- 
crite I  would  send  him  about  his  business.  Don't  let 
my  displeasure  be  too  fierce  with  him  for  a  fib  or  two 
on  his  own  account. 

Some  dozen  years  ago,  my  family  being  absent  in  a 
distant  part  of  the  country,  and  my  business  detaining 


150  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

me  in  London,  I  remained  in  my  own  house  with  three 
servants  on  board  wages.  I  used  only  to  breakfast  at 
home ;  and  future  ages  will  be  interested  to  know  that 
this  meal  used  to  consist,  at  that  period,  of  tea,  a  pen- 
ny roll,  a  pat  of  butter,  and  perhaps  an  egg.  My 
weekly  bill  used  invariably  to  be  about  fifty  shillings ; 
so  that,  as  I  never  dined  in  the  house,  you  see,  my 
breakfast,  consisting  of  the  delicacies  before  mentioned, 
cost  about  seven  shillings  and  threepence  per  diem. 
I  must,  therefore,  have  consumed  daily — 

S.     (I. 

A  quarter  of  a  pound  of  tea  (say)  .         ..13 

A  penny  roll  (say)        ......         1     0 

One  pound  of  butter  (say)    .....         1     3 

One  pound  of  lump-sugar 10 

A  new-laid  egg    .......         2     0 


which  is  the  only  possible  way  I  have  for  making  out 
the  sum. 

"Well,  I  fell  ill  while  under  this  regimen,  and  had  an 
illness  which,  but  for  a  certain  doctor,  who  was  brought 
to  me  by  a  certain  kind  friend  I  had  in  those  days, 
would,  I  think,  have  prevented  the  possibility  of  my 
telling  this  interesting  anecdote  now  a  dozen  years 
after.  Don't  be  frightened,  my  dear  madam ;  it  is  not 
a  horrid,  sentimental  account  of  a  malady  you  are 
coming  to — only  a  question  of  grocery.  This  illness 
I  say,  lasted  some  seventeen  days,  during  which  the 
servants  were  admirably  attentive  and  kind ;  and  poor 
John,  especially,  was  up  at  all  hours,  watching  night 
after  night — amiable,  cheerful,  untiring,  respectful,  the 
very  best  of  Johns  and  nurses. 

Twice  or  thrice  in  the  seventeen  days  I  may  have 
had  a  glass  of  eau  sucree — say  a  dozen  glasses  of  eau 


ON   A   CHALK-MAKK   ON   THE   DOOR.  151 

sucree —  certainly  not  more.     Well,  this   admirable, 
watchful,  cheerful,  tender,  affectionate  John  brought 
me  in  a  little  bill  for  seventeen  pounds  of  sugar  con- 
sumed during  the  illness :  "  Often  'ad  sugar  and  wa- 
ter ;  always  was  a  callin'  for  it,"  says  John,  wagging 
his  head  quite  gravely.     You  are  dead,  years  and 
years  ago,  poor  John — so  patient,  so  friendly,  so  kind, 
so  cheerful  to  the  invalid  in  the  fever.     But  confess, 
now,  wherever  you  are,  that  seventeen  pounds  of  su- 
gar to  make  six  glasses  of  eau  sucree  was  a  little  too 
strong,  wasn't  it,  John  ?     Ah !  how  frankly,  how  trust- 
ily,  how  bravely  he  lied,  poor  John !     One  evening, 
being  at  Brighton,  in  the  convalescence,  I  remember 
John's  step  was  unsteady,  his  voice  thick,  his  laugh 
queer ;  and  having  some  quinine  to  give  me,  John 
brought  the  glass  to  me — not  to  my  mouth,  but  struck 
me  with  it  pretty  smartly  in  the  eye,  which  was  not 
the  way  in  which  Dr.  Elliotson  had  intended  his  pre- 
scription should  be  taken.     Turning  that  eye  upon 
him,  I  ventured  to  hint  that  my  attendant  had  been 
drinking.     Drinking !  I  never  was  more  humiliated  at 
the  thought  of  my  own  injustice  than  at  John's  reply. 
"Drinking!     Sulp  me!  I  have  had  ony  one  pint  of 
beer  with  my  dinner  at  one  o'clock !"  and  he  retreats, 
holding  on  by  a  chair.     These  are  fibs,  you  see,  apper- 
taining to  the  situation.     John  is  drunk.     "  Sulp  him, 
he  has  only  had  an  'alf-pint  of  beer  with  his  dinner  six 
hours  ago ;"  and  none  of  his  fellow-servants  will  say 
otherwise.     Polly  is  smuggled  on  board  ship.     Who 
tells  the  lieutenant  when  he  comes  his  rounds  ?    Boys 
are  playing  cards  in  the  bedroom.     The  outlying  fag 
announces  master  coming:  out  go  candles  —  cards 


152  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

popped  into  bed — boys  sound  asleep.  Who  bad  that 
light  in  the  dormitory  ?  Law  bless  you  !  the  poor 
dear  innocents  are  every  one  snoring.  Every  one 
snoring,  and  every  snore  is  a  lie  told  through  the 
nose  !  Suppose  one  of  your  boys  or  mine  is  engaged 
in  that  awful  crime,  are  we  going  to  break  our  hearts 
about  it  ?  Come,  come.  We  pull  a  long  face,  waggle 
a  grave  head,  and  chuckle  within  our  waistcoats. 

Between  me  and  those  fellow-creatures  of  mine  who 
are  sitting  in  the  room  below,  how  strange  and  won- 
derful is  the  partition !  We  meet  at  every  hour  of 
the  daylight,  and  are  indebted  to  each  other  for  a 
hundred  offices  of  duty  and  comfort  of  life ;  and  we 
live  together  for  years,  and  don't  know  each  other. 
John's  voice  to  me  is  quite  different  from  John's  voice 
when  it  addresses  his  mates  below.  If  I  met  Hannah 
in  the  street  with  a  bonnet  on,  I  doubt  whether  I 
should  know  her.  And  all  these  good  people,  with 
whom  I  may  live  for  years  and  years,  have  cares,  in- 
terests, dear  friends  and  relatives,  mayhap  schemes, 
passions,  longing  hopes,  tragedies  of  their  own,  from 
which  a  carpet  and  a  few  planks  and  beams  utterly 
separate  me.  When  we  were  at  the  sea-side,  and  poor 
Ellen  used  to  look  so  pale,  and  run  after  the  postman's 
bell,  and  seize  a  letter  in  a  great  scrawling  hand,  and 
read  it,  and  cry  in  a  corner,  how  should  we  know  that 
the  poor  little  thing's  heart  was  breaking?  She  fetch- 
ed the  water,  and  she  smoothed  the  ribbons,  and  she 
laid  out  the  dresses,  and  brought  the  early  cup  of  tea 
in  the  morning,  just  as  if  she  had  had  no  cares  to  keep 
her  awake.  Henry  (who  lived  out  of  the  house)  was 
the  servant  of  a  friend  of  mine  who  lived  in  chambers. 


ON  A  CHALK-MARK  ON  THE  DOOR.  153 

There  was  a  dinner  one  day,  and  Henry  waited  all 
through  the  dinner.  The  Champagne  was  properly 
iced,  the  dinner  was  excellently  served ;  every  guest 
was  attended  to ;  the  dinner  disappeared ;  the  dessert 
was  set ;  the  claret  was  in  perfect  order,  carefully  de- 
canted, and  more  ready.  And  then  Henry  said,  "  If 
you  please,  sir,  may  I  go  home  ?"  He  had  received 
word  that  his  house  was  on  fire ;  and,  having  seen 
through  his  dinner,  he  wished  to  go  and  look  after  his 
children,  and  little  sticks  of  furniture.  Why,  such  a 
man's  livery  is  a  uniform  of  honor.  The  crest  on  his 
button  is  a  badge  of  bravery. 

Do  you  see — I  imagine  I  do  myself — in  these  little 
instances  a  tinge  of  humor  ?  Ellen's  heart  is  break- 
ing for  handsome  Jeames  of  Buckley  Square,  whose 
great  legs  are  kneeling,  and  who  has  given  a  lock  of 
his  precious  powdered  head  to  some  other  than  Ellen. 
Henry  is  preparing  the  sauce  for  his  master's  wild 
ducks  while  the  engines  are  squirting  over  his  own 
little  nest  and  brood.  Lift  these  figures  up  but  a  story 
from  the  basement  to  the  ground  floor,  and  the  fun  is 
gone.  We  may  be  en  pleine  tragedie.  Ellen  may 
breathe  her  last  sigh  in  blank  verse,  calling  down  bless- 
ings upon  James  the  profligate  who  deserts  her.  Hen- 
ry is  a  hero,  and  epaulets  are  on  his  shoulders.  At- 
qui  sciebat,  etc.,  whatever  tortures  are  in  store  for  him, 
he  will  be  at  his  post  of  duty. 

You  concede,  however,  that  there  is  a  touch  of  hu- 
mor in  the  two  tragedies  here  mentioned.  Why  ?  Is 
it  that  the  idea  of  persons  at  service  is  somehow  lu- 
dicrous ?  Perhaps  it  is  made  more  so  in  this  country 
by  the  splendid  appearance  of  the  liveried  domestics 
G2 


154  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

of  great  people.  When  you  think  that  we  dress  in 
black  ourselves,  and  put  our  fellow-creatures  in  green, 
pink,  or  canary-colored  breeches ;  that  we  order  them 
to  plaster  their  hair  with  flour,  having  brushed  that 
nonsense  out  of  our  own  heads  fifty  years  ago ;  that 
some  of  the  most  genteel  and  stately  among  us  cause 
the  men  who  drive  their  carriages  to  put  on  little  Al- 
bino wigs,  and  sit  behind  great  nosegays — I  say  I  sup- 
pose it  is  this  heaping  of  gold  lace,  gaudy  colors,  bloom- 
ing plushes,  on  honest  John  Trot,  which  makes  the 
man  absurd  in  our  eyes,  who  need  be  nothing  but  a 
simple  reputable  citizen  and  indoor  laborer.  Suppose, 
my  dear  sir,  that  you  yourself  were  suddenly  desired 
to  put  on  a  full  dress,  or  even  undress,  domestic  uni- 
form, with  our  friend  Jones's  crest  repeated  in  varied 
combinations  of  button  on  your  front  and  back  ?  Sup- 
pose, madam,  your  son  were  told  that  he  could  not  go 
out  except  in  lower  garments  of  carnation  or  amber- 
colored  plush — would  you  let  him?  ....  But,  as  you 
justly  say,  this  is  not  the  question,  and,  besides,  it  is  a 
question  fraught  with  danger,  sir  ;  and  radicalism,  sir ; 
and  subversion  of  the  very  foundations  of  the  social 
fabric,  sir.  ...  Well,  John,  we  won't  enter  on  your 
great  domestic  question.  Don't  let  us  disport  with 
Jeames's  dangerous  strength,  and  the  edge-tools  about 
his  knife-board ;  but  with  Betty  and  Susan  who  wield 
the  playful  mop,  and  set  on  the  simmering  kettle. 
Surely  you  have  heard  Mrs.  Toddles  talking  to  Mrs. 
Doddles  about  their  mutual  maids  ?  Miss  Susan  must 
have  a  silk  gown,  and  Miss  Betty  must  wear  flowers 
under  her  bonnet  when  she  goes  to  church  if  you 
please,  and  did  you  ever  hear  such  impudence  ?     The 


ON  A  CHALK-MARK  ON  THE   DOOR.  155 

servant  in  many  small  establishments  is  a  constant  and 
endless  theme  of  talk.  What  small  wage,  sleep,  meal, 
what  endless  scouring,  scolding,  tramping  on  messages, 
fall  to  that  poor  Susan's  lot ;  what  indignation  at  the 
little  kindly  passing  word  with  the  grocer's  young 
man,  the  pot-boy,  the  chubby  butcher !  Where  such 
things  will  end,  my  dear  Mrs.  Toddles,  I  don't  know. 
What  wages  they  will  want  next,  my  dear  Mrs.  Dod- 
dles,  etc. 

Here,  dear  ladies,  is  an  advertisement  which  I  cut 
out  of  The  Times  a  few  days  since,  expressly  for  you : 

A  LADY  is  desirous  of  obtaining  a  SITUATION  for  a  very  re- 
spectable young  woman  as  HEAD  KITCHEN-MAID  under  a 
man-cook.  She  has  lived  four  years  under  a  very  good  cook  and 
housekeeper.  Can  make  ice,  and  is  an  excellent  baker.  She  will 
only  take  a  place  in  a  very  good  family,  where  she  can  have  the  op- 
portunity of  improving  herself,  and,  if  possible,  staying  for  two  years. 
Apply  by  letter  to,  etc.,  etc. 

There,  Mrs.  Toddles,  what  do  you  think  of  that,  and 
did  you  ever  ?  Well,  no,  Mrs.  Doddles.  Upon  my 
word,  now,  Mrs.  T.,  I  don't  think  I  ever  did.  A  re- 
spectable young  woman — as  head  kitchen-maid — un- 
der a  man-cook,  will  only  take  a  place  in  a  very  good 
family,  where  she  can  improve,  and  stay  two  years. 
Just  note  up  the  conditions,  Mrs.  Toddles,  mum,  if  you 
please,  mum,  and  then  let  us  see : 

1.  This  young  woman  is  to  be  head  kitchen-maid; 

that  is  to  say,  there  is  to  be  a  chorus  of  kitchen- 
maids,  of  which  the  Y.  W.  is  to  be  chief. 

2.  She  will  only  be  situated  under  a  man-cook.    (A) 

ought  he  to  be  a  French  cook ;   and  (B),  if 


156      i  ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS. 

so,  would  the  lady  desire  him  to  be  a  Prot- 
estant ? 
3.  She  will  only  take  a  place  in  a  very  good  family. 
How  old  ought  the  family  to  be,  and  what  do 
you  call  good  ?  that  is  the  question.  How  long- 
after  the  Conquest  will  do  ?  Would  a  banker's 
family  do,  or  is  a  baronet's  good  enough  ?  Best 
say  what  rank  in  the  peerage  would  be  suffi- 
ciently high.  But  the  lady  does  not  say  wheth- 
er she  would  like  a  High-Church  or  a  Low- 
Church  family.  Ought  there  to  be  unmarried 
sons,  and  may  they  follow  a  profession?  and 
please  say  how  many  daughters ;  and  would  the 
lady  like  them  to  be  musical  ?  And  how  many 
company  dinners  a  week  ?  Not  too  many,  for 
fear  of  fatiguing  the  upper  kitchen-maid ;  but 
sufficient,  so  as  to  keep  the  upper  kitchen- 
maid's  hand  in.  [N.B. — I  think  I  can  see  a 
rather  bewildered  expression  on  the  counte- 
nance of  Mesdames  Doddles  and  Toddles  as  I 
am  prattling  on  in  this  easy  bantering  way.] 
The  head  kitchen-maid  wishes  to  stay  for  two 
years,  and  improve  herself  under  the  man -cook, 
and  having  of  course  sucked  the  brains  (as  the 
phrase  is)  from  under  the  chef's  night-cap,  then 
the  head  kitchen-maid  wishes  to  go. 

And  upon  my  word,  Mrs.  Toddles,  mum,  I  will  go  and 
fetch  the  cab  for  her.  The  cab  ?  Why  not  her  lady- 
ship's own  carriage  and  pair,  and  the  head  coachman 
to  drive  away  the  head  kitchen-maid  ?  You  see  she 
stipulates  for  every  thing — the  time  to  come ;  the  time 


ON   A   CHALK-MARK   ON   THE   DOOR.  157 

to  stay ;  the  family  she  will  be  with ;  and  as  soon  as 
she  has  improved  herself  enough,  of  course  the  upper 
kitchen-maid  will  step  into  the  carriage  and  drive  off. 

Well,  upon  my  word  and  conscience,  if  things  are 
coming  to  this  pass,  Mrs.  Toddles,  and  Mrs.  Doddles, 
mum,  I  think  I  will  go  up  stairs  and  get  a  basin  and  a 
sponge,  and  then  down  stairs  and  get  some  hot  water ; 
and  then  I  will  go  and  scrub  that  chalk-mark  off  my 
own  door  with  my  own  hands. 

It  is  wiped  off,  I  declare!  After  ever  so  many 
weeks !  Who  has  done  it  ?  It  was  just  a  little  round- 
about mark,  you  know,  and  it  was  there  for  days  and 
weeks  before  I  ever  thought  it  would  be  the  text  of  a 
Koundabout  Paper. 


158 


ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 


ON  BEING  FOUND  OUT, 


T  the  close  (let  us  say) 
of  Queen  Anne's 
reign,  when  I  was 
a  boy  at  a  private 
and  preparatory 
school  for  young 
gentlemen,  I  re- 
member the  wise- 
acre of  a  master  or- 
dering us  all,  one 
night,  to  march 
into  a  little  garden 
at  the  back  of  the 
house,  and  thence 
to  proceed  one  by 
one  into  a  tool  or 
~ " -^^---^^  hen  house  (I  was 

but  a  tender  little  thing  just  put  into  short  clothes, 
and  can't  exactly  say  whether  the  house  was  for  tools 
or  hens),  and  in  that  house  to  put  our  hands  into  a 
sack  which  stood  on  a  bench,  a  candle  burning  beside 
it.  I  put  my  hand  into  the  sack.  My  hand  came 
out  quite  black.  I  went  and  joined  the  other  boys  in 
the  school-room ;  and  all  their  hands  were  black  too. 
By  reason  of  my  tender  age  (and  there  are  some 


ON  BEING  FOUND   OUT.  159 

critics  who,  I  hope,  will  be  satisfied  by  my  acknowl- 
edging that  I  am  a  hundred  and  fifty-six  next  birth- 
day) I  could  not  understand  what  was  the  meaning  of 
this  night  excursion — this  candle,  this  tool-house,  this 
bag  of  soot.  I  think  we  little  boys  were  taken  out  of 
our  sleep  to  be  brought  to  the  ordeal.  We  came, 
then,  and  showed  our  little  hands  to  the  master ;  wash- 
ed them  or  not — most  probably,  I  should  say,  not — 
and  so  went  bewildered  back  to  bed. 

Something  had  been  stolen  in  the  school  that  day ; 
and  Mr.  Wiseacre  having  read  in  a  book  of  an  in- 
genious method  of  rinding  out  a  thief  by  making  him 
put  his  hand  into  a  sack  (which,  if  guilty,  the  rogue 
would  shirk  from  doing),  all  we  boys  were  subjected 
to  the  trial.  Goodness  knows  what  the  lost  object 
was,  or  who  stole  it.  We  all  had  black  hands  to  show 
to  the  master.  And  the  thief,  whoever  he  was,  was 
not  Found  Out  that  time. 

I  wonder  if  the  rascal  is  alive — an  elderly  scoun- 
drel he  must  be  by  this  time ;  and  a  hoary  old  hypo- 
crite, to  whom  an  old  school-fellow  presents  his  kindest 
regards — parenthetically  remarking  what  a  dreadful 
place  that  private  school  was ;  cold,  chilblains,  bad 
dinners,  not  enough  victuals,  and  caning  awful !  Are 
you  alive  still,  I  say,  you  nameless  villain,  who  escaped 
discovery  on  that  day  of  crime  ?  I  hope  you  have 
escaped  often  since,  old  sinner.  Ah !  what  a  lucky 
thing  it  is  for  you  and  me,  my  man,  that  we  are  not 
found  out  in  all  our  peccadilloes,  and  that  our  backs 
can  slip  away  from  the  master  and  the  cane ! 

Just  consider  what  life  would  be  if  every  rogue  was 
found  out,  and  flogged  coram  popido  !    What  a  butch- 


160  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

ery,  what  an  indecency,  what  an  endless  swishing  of 
the  rod  !  Don't  cry  out  about  my  misanthropy.  My 
good  friend  Mealymouth,  I  will  trouble  you  to  tell 
me,  do  you  go  to  church  ?  When  there,  do  you  say, 
or  do  you  not,  that  you  are  a  miserable  sinner  ?  and, 
saying  so,  do  you  believe  or  disbelieve  it?  If  you  are 
a  M.  S.,  don't  you  deserve  correction,  and  aren't  you 
grateful  if  you  are  to  be  let  off?  I  say  again,  what  a 
blessed  thing  it  is  that  we  are  not  all  found  out ! 

Just  picture  to  yourself  every  body  who  does  wrong 
being  found  out,  and  punished  accordingly.  Fancy 
all  the  boys  in  all  the  schools  being  whipped,  and  then 
the  assistants,  and  then  the  head  master  (Dr.  Bradford 
let  us  call  him).  Fancy  the  provost-marshal  being 
tied  up,  having  previously  superintended  the  correc- 
tion of  the  whole  army.  After  the  young  gentlemen 
have  had  their  turn  for  the  faulty  exercises,  fancy  Dr. 
Lincolnsinn  being  taken  up  for  certain  faults  in  his 
Essay  and  Eeview.  After  the  clergyman  has  cried 
his  peccavi,  suppose  we  hoist  up  a  bishop,  and  give 
him  a  couple  of  dozen !  (I  see  my  Lord  Bishop  of 
Double-Gloucester  sitting  in  a  very  uneasy  posture 
on  his  right  reverend  bench.)  After  we  have  cast  off 
the  bishop,  what  are  we  to  say  to  the  minister  who 
1  appointed  him  ?  My  Lord  Cinqwarden,  it  is  painful 
1  to  have  to  use  personal  correction  to  a  boy  of  your 
age ;  but  really  .  .  .  Siste  tandem,  carnifex  /  The 
butchery  is  too  horrible.  The  hand  drops  powerless, 
appalled  at  the  quantity  of  birch  which  it  must  cut 
and  brandish.  I  am  glad  we  are  not  all  found  out,  I 
say  again  ;  and  protest,  my  dear  brethren,  against  our 
having  our  deserts. 


ON  BEING  FOUND  OUT.  161 

To  fancy  all  men  found  out  and  punished  is  bad 
enough ;  but  imagine  all  women  found  out  in  the  dis- 
tinguished social  circle  in  which  you  and  I  have  the 
honor  to  move.  Is  it  not  a  mercy  that  a  many  of 
these  fair  criminals  remain  unpunished  and  undiscov- 
ered ?  There  is  Mrs.  Longbow,  who  is  forever  prac- 
ticing, and  who  shoots  poisoned  arrows  too;  when 
you  meet  her  you  don't  call  her  liar,  and  charge  her 
with  the  wickedness  she  has  done  and  is  doing? 
There  is  Mrs.  Painter,  who  passes  for  a  most  respecta- 
ble woman,  and  a  model  in  society.  There  is  no  use 
in  saying  what  you  really  know  regarding  her  and 
her  goings  on.  There  is  Diana  Hunter — what  a  lit- 
tle, haughty  prude  it  is;  and  yet  we  know  stories 
about  her  which  are  not  altogether  edifying.  I  say  it 
is  best,  for  the  sake  of  the  good,  that  the  bad  should 
not  all  be  found  out.  You  don't  want  your  children 
to  know  the  history  of  that  lady  in  the  next  box,  who 
is  so  handsome,  and  whom  they  admire  so?  Ah 
me !  what  would  life  be  if  we  were  all  found  out,  and 
punished  for  all  our  faults  ?  Jack  Ketch  would  be  in 
permanence  ;  and  then  who  would  hang  Jack  Ketch? 

They  talk  of  murderers  being  pretty  certainly  found 
out.  Pshaw!  I  have  heard  an  authority  awfully 
competent  vow  and  declare  that  scores  and  hundreds 
of  murders  are  committed,  and  nobody  is  the  wiser. 
That  terrible  man  mentioned  one  or  two  ways  of  com- 
mitting murder,  which  he  maintained  were  quite  com- 
mon, and  were  scarcely  ever  found  out.  A  man,  for 
instance,  comes  home  to  his  wife,  and  .  .  .  but  I 
pause ;  I  know  that  this  Magazine  has  a  very  large 
circulation.     Hundreds  and  hundreds  of  thousands — 


162  ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS. 

why  not  say  a  million  of  people  at  once  ? — well,  say  a 
million  of  people  read  it.  And  among  these  countless 
readers  I  might  be  teaching  some  monster  how  to 
make  away  with  his  wife  without  being  found  out, 
some  fiend  of  a  woman  how  to  destroy  her  dear  hus- 
band. I  will  not,  then,  tell  this  easy  and  simple  way 
of  murder,  as  communicated  to  me  by  a  most  respect- 
able party  in  the  confidence  of  private  intercourse. 
Suppose  some  gentle  reader  were  to  try  this  most  sim- 
ple and  easy  receipt — it  seems  to  me  almost  infallible 
— and  come  to  grief  in  consequence,  and  be  found  out 
and  hanged  ?  Should  I  ever  pardon  myself  for  hav- 
ing been  the  means  of  doing  injury  to  a  single  one  of 
our  esteemed  subscribers  ?  The  prescription  whereof 
I  speak — that  is  to  say,  whereof  I  donH  speak — shall 
be  buried  in  this  bosom.  No,  I  am  a  humane  man. 
I  am  not  one  of  your  Bluebeards  to  go  and  say  to  my 
wife,  "  My  dear,  I  am  going  away  for  a  few  days  to 
Brighton.  Here  are  all  the  keys  of  the  house.  You 
may  open  every  door  and  closet  except  the  one  at  the 
end  of  the  oak-room  opposite  the  fire-place,  with  the 
little  bronze  Shakspeare  on  the  mantle-piece  (or  what 
not)."  I  don't  say  this  to  a  woman — unless,  to  be 
sure,  I  want  to  get  rid  of  her — because,  after  such  a 
caution,  I  know  she'll  peep  into  the  closet.  I  say 
nothing  about  the  closet  at  all.  I  keep  the  key  in 
my  pocket,  and  a  being  whom  I  love,  but  who,  as  I 
know,  has  many  weaknesses,  out  of  harm's  way.  You 
toss  up  your  head,  dear  angel,  drub  on  the  ground 
with  your  lovely  little  feet,  on  the  table  with  your 
sweet  rosy  fingers,  and  cry,  "  Oh  sneerer !  You  don't 
know  the  depth  of  woman's  feeling,  the  lofty  scorn  of 


ON  BEING  FOUND   OUT.  163 

all  deceit,  the  entire  absence  of  mean  curiosity  in  the 
sex,  or  never,  never  would  you  libel  us  so !"  "Ah, 
Delia !  dear,  dear  Delia !  it  is  because  I  fancy  I  do 
know  something  about  you  (not  all,  mind — no,  no; 
no  man  knows  that).  Ah !  my  bride,  my  ringdove, 
my  rose,  my  poppet — choose,  in  fact,  whatever  name 
you  like — bulbul  of  my  grove,  fountain  of  my  desert, 
sunshine  of  my  darkling  life,  and  joy  of  my  dungeon- 
ed existence,  it  is  because  I  do  know  a  little  about  you 
that  I  conclude  to  say  nothing  of  that  private  closet, 
and  keep  my  key  in  my  pocket.  You  take  away  that 
closet-key  then,  and  the  house-key.  You  lock  Delia 
in.  You  keep  her  out  of  harm's  way  and  gadding, 
and  so  she  never  can  be  found  out. 

And  yet  by  little  strange  accidents  and  coincidents 
how  we  are  being  found  out  every  day  !  You  remem- 
ber that  old  story  of  the  Abbe  Kakatoes,  who  told  the 
company  at  supper  one  night  how  the  first  confession 
he  ever  received  was  from  a  murderer,  let  us  say. 
Presently  enters  to  supper  the  Marquis  de  Croquemi- 
taine.  "Palsambleu,  abbe* !"  says  the  brilliant  mar- 
quis, taking  a  pinch  of  snuff,  "  are  you  here  ?  Gen- 
tlemen and  ladies,  I  was  the  abbd's  first  penitent,  and 
I  made  him  a  confession  which  I  promise  you  aston- 
ished him." 

To  be  sure,  how  queerly  things  are  found  out! 
Here  is  an  instance.  Only  the  other  day  I  was  writ- 
ing in  these  Roundabout  Papers  about  a  certain  man 
whom  I  facetiously  called  Baggs,  and  who  had  abused 
me  to  my  friends,  who  of  course  told  me.  Shortly 
after  that  paper  was  published  another  friend,  Sacks, 
let  us  call  him,  scowls  fiercely  at  me  as  I  am  sitting  in 


164  ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS. 

perfect  good-humor  at  the  club,  and  passes  on  without 
speaking.  A  cut.  A  quarrel.  Sacks  thinks  it  is 
about  him  that  I  am  writing ;  whereas,  upon  my  hon- 
or and  conscience,  I  never  had  him  once  in  my  mind, 
and  was  pointing  my  moral  from  quite  another  man. 
But  don't  you  see,  by  this  wrath  of  the  guilty-con- 
scienced  Sacks,  that  he  had  been  abusing  me  too? 
He  has  owned  himself  guilty,  never  having  been  ac- 
cused. He  has  winced  when  nobody  thought  of  hit- 
ting him.  I  did  but  put  the  cap  out,  and  madly  but- 
ting and  charing,  behold  my  friend  rushes  to  put  his 
head  into  it !  Never  mind,  Sacks,  you  are  found  out, 
but  I  bear  you  no  malice,  my  man. 

And  yet  to  be  found  out,  I  know  from  my  own  ex- 
perience, must  be  painful  and  odious,  and  cruelly  mor- 
tifying to  the  inward  vanity.  Suppose  I  am  a  pol- 
troon, let  us  say.  With  fierce  mustache,  loud  talk, 
plentiful  oaths,  and  an  immense  stick,  I  keep  up  nev- 
ertheless a  character  for  courage.  I  swear  fearfully  at 
cabmen  and  women  ;  brandish  my  bludgeon,  and  per- 
haps knock  down  a  little  man  or  two  with  it ;  brag  of 
the  images  which  I  break  at  the  shooting-gallery,  and 
pass  among  my  friends  for  a  whiskery  fire-eater,  afraid 
of  neither  man  nor  dragon.  Ah  me  !  Suppose  some 
brisk  little  chap  steps  up  and  gives  me  a  caning  in  St. 
James's  Street,  with  all  the  heads  of  my  friends  look- 
ing out  of  all  the  club  windows  ?  My  reputation  is 
gone.  I  frighten  no  man  more.  My  nose  is  pulled 
by  whipper-snappers,  who  jump  up  on  a  chair  to  reach 
it.  I  am  found  out.  And  in  the  days  of  my  tri- 
umphs, when  people  were  yet  afraid  of  me,  and  were 
taken  in  by  my  swagger,  I  always  knew  that  I  was  a 


ON   BEING   FOUND   OUT.  165 

lily-liver,  and  expected  that  I  should  be  found  out 
some  day. 

That  certainty  of  being  found  out  must  haunt  and 
depress  many  a  bold  braggadocio  spirit.  Let  us  say 
it  is  a  clergyman,  who  can  pump  copious  floods  of 
tears  out  of  his  own  eyes  and  those  of  his  audience. 
He  thinks  to  himself,  "I  am  but  a  poor  swindling, 
chattering  rogue.  My  bills  are  unpaid.  I  have  jilted 
several  women  whom  I  have  promised  to  marry.  I 
don't  know  whether  I  believe  what  I  preach,  and  I 
know  I  have  stolen  the  very  sermon  over  which  I 
have  been  sniveling.  Have  they  found  me  out  ?"  says 
he,  as  his  head  drops  down  on  the  cushion. 

Then  your  writer,  poet,  historian,  novelist,  or  what 
not.  The  Beacon  says  that  "Jones's  work  is  one  of 
the  first  order."  The  Lamp  declares  that  "Jones's 
tragedy  surpasses  every  work  since  the  days  of  Him 
of  Avon."  The  Comet  asserts  that  "J.'s  Life  of  Goody 
Two  Shoes  is  a  Krijfia  tg  aa,  a  noble  and  enduring  mon- 
ument to  the  fame  of  that  admirable  Englishwoman," 
and  so  forth.  But  then  Jones  knows  that  he  has  lent 
the  critic  of  the  Beacon  five  pounds ;  that  his  publish- 
er has  a  half  share  in  the  Lamp  ;  and  that  the  Comet 
comes  repeatedly  to  dine  with  him.  It  is  all  very 
well.  Jones  is  immortal  until  he  is  found  out ;  and 
then  down  comes  the  extinguisher,  and  the  immortal 
is  dead  and  buried.  The  idea  {dies  iro?  /)  of  discovery 
must  haunt  many  a  man,  and  make  him  uneasy,  as  the 
trumpets  are  puffing  in  his  triumph.  Brown,  who  has 
a  higher  place  than  he  deserves,  cowers  before  Smith, 
who  has  found  him  out.  What  is  a  chorus  of  critics 
shouting  "  Bravo?"  a  public  clapping  hands  and  fling- 


166  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

ing  garlands?  Brown  knows  that  Smith  has  found 
him  out.  Puff,  trumpets !  Wave,  banners !  Hurrah, 
boys,  for  the  immortal  Brown !  "  This  is  all  very 
well,"  B.  thinks  (bowing  the  while,  smiling,  laying  his 
hand  to  his  heart);  "but  there  stands  Smith  at  the 
window :  he  has  measured  me ;  and  some  day  the  oth- 
ers will  find  me  out  too."  It  is  a  very  curious  sensa- 
tion to  sit  by  a  man  who  has  found  you  out,  and  who, 
as  you  know,  has  found  you  out,  or,  vice  versa,  to  sit 
with  a  man  whom  you  have  found  out.  His  talent  ? 
Bah !  His  virtue  ?  We  know  a  little  story  or  two 
about  his  virtue,  and  he  knows  we  know  it.  We  are 
thinking  over  friend  Kobinson's  antecedents,  as  we 
grin,  bow,  and  talk,  and  we  are  both  humbugs  togeth- 
er. Kobinson  a  good  fellow,  is  he  ?  You  know  how 
he  behaved  to  Hicks  ?  A  good-natured  man,  is  he  ? 
Pray,  do  you  remember  that  little  story  of  Mrs.  Kob- 
inson's black  eye  ?  How  men  have  to  work,  to  talk, 
to  smile,  to  go  to  bed,  and  try  and  sleep,  with  this 
dread  of  being  found  out  on  their  consciences  !  Bar- 
dolph,  who  has  robbed  a  church,  and  Nym,  who  has 
taken  a  purse,  go  to  their  usual  haunts,  and  smoke 
their  pipes  with  their  companions.  Mr.  Detective 
Bullseye  appears,  and  says,  "  Oh,  Bardolph !  I  want 
you  about  that  there  pyx  business  !"  Mr.  Bardolph 
knocks  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  puts  out  his  hands  to 
the  little  steel  cuffs,  and  walks  away  quite  meekly. 
He  is  found  out.  He  must  go.  "  Grood-by,  Doll  Tear- 
sheet  !  Good-by,  Mrs.  Quickly,  ma'am !"  The  other 
gentlemen  and  ladies  de  la  socieie  look  on  and  exchange 
mute  adieux  with  the  departing  friends.  And  an  as- 
sured time  will  come  when  the  other  gentlemen  and 
ladies  will  be  found  out  too. 


ON   BEING  FOUND  OUT.  167 

What  a  wonderful  and  beautiful  provision  of  nature 
it  has  been  that,  for  the  most  part,  our  womankind  are 
not  endowed  with  the  faculty  of  finding  us  out !  They 
don't  doubt,  and  probe,  and  weigh,  and  take  your 
measure.  Lay  down  this  paper,  my  benevolent  friend 
and  reader,  go  into  your  drawing-room  now,  and  utter 
a  joke  ever  so  old,  and  I  wager  sixpence  the  ladies 
there  will  all  begin  to  laugh.  Go  to  Brown's  house, 
and  tell  Mrs.  Brown  and  the  young  ladies  what  you 
think  of  him,  and  see  what  a  welcome  you  will  get ! 
In  like  manner,  let  him  come  to  your  house,  and  tell 
your  good  lady  his  candid  opinion  of  you,  and  fancy 
how  she  will  receive  him !  "Would  you  have  your 
wife  and  children  know  you  exactly  for  what  you  are, 
and  esteem  you  precisely  at  your  worth  ?  If  so,  my 
friend,  you  will  live  in  a  dreary  house,  and  you  will 
have  but  a  chilly  fireside.  Do  you  suppose  the  peo- 
ple round  it  don't  see  your  homely  face  as  under  a 
glamour,  and,  as  it  were,  with  a  halo  of  love  round 
it?  You  don't  fancy  you  are  as  you  seem  to  them? 
No  such  thing,  my  man.  Put  away  that  monstrous 
conceit,  and  be  thankful  that  they  have  not  found  you 
out. 


168 


KOUNDABOTJT   PAPEKS. 


ON  A  HUNDRED  YEARS  HENCE. 


HERE  have  I  just 
read  of  a  game 
played  at  a  coun- 
try house?  The 
party  assembles 
round  a  table  with 
pens,  ink,  and  pa- 
per. Some  one 
narrates  a  tale  con- 
taining more  or 
less  incidents  and 
personages.  Each 
person  of  the  com- 
pany then  writes 
down,  to  the  best 
of  his  memory  and 
ability,  the  anecdote  just  narrated,  and  finally  the  pa- 
pers are  to  be  read  out.  I  do  not  say  I  should  like  to 
play  often  at  this  game,  which  might  possibly  be  a  te- 
dious and  lengthy  pastime,  not  by  any  means  so  amus- 
ing as  smoking  a  cigar  in  the  conservatory ;  or  even 
listening  to  the  young  ladies  playing  their  piano-pieces ; 
or  to  Hobbs  and  Nobbs  lingering  round  the  bottle,  and 
talking  over  the  morning's  run  with  the  hounds ;  but 
surely  it  is  a  moral  and  ingenious  sport.     They  say 


ON  A  HUNDRED  YEARS  HENCE.       169 

the  variety  of  narratives  is  often  very  odd  and  amus- 
ing. The  original  story  becomes  so  changed  and  dis- 
torted that  at  the  end  of  all  the  statements  you  are 
puzzled  to  know  where  the  truth  is  at  all.  As  time 
is  of  small  importance  to  the  cheerful  persons  engaged 
in  this  sport,  perhaps  a  good  way  of  playing  it  would 
be  to  spread  it  over  a  couple  of  years.  Let  the  peo- 
ple who  played  the  game  in  '60  all  meet  and  play  it 
once  more  in  '61,  and  each  write  his  story  over  again. 
Then  bring  out  your  original  and  compare  notes.  Not 
only  will  the  stories  differ  from  each  other,  but  the 
writers  will  probably  differ  from  themselves.  In  the 
course  of  the  year  the  incidents  will  grow  or  will  dwin- 
dle strangely.  The  least  authentic  of  the  statements 
will  be  so  lively  or  so  malicious,  or  so  neatly  put,  that 
it  will  appear  most  like  the  truth.  I  like  these  tales 
and  sportive  exercises.  I  had  begun  a  little  print  col- 
lection once.  I  had  Addison  in  his  night-gown  in  bed 
at  Holland  House,  requesting  young  Lord  Warwick 
to  remark  how  a  Christian  should  die.  I  had  Cam- 
bronne  clutching  his  cocked  hat,  and  uttering  the  im- 
mortal la  Garde  meurt  et  ne  se  rend  pas.  I  had  the 
Vengeur  going  down,  and  all  the  crew  hurrahing  like 
madmen.  I  had  Alfred  toasting  the  muffin ;  Curtius 
(Hay don)  jumping  into  the  gulf;  with  extracts  from 
Napoleon's  bulletins,  and  a  fine  authentic  portrait  of 
Baron  Munchausen. 

What  man  who  has  been  before  the  public  at  all 
has  not  heard  similar  wonderful  anecdotes  regarding 
himself  and  his  own  history  ?  In  these  humble  essay- 
kins  I  have  taken  leave  to  egotize.  I  cry  out  about 
the  shoes  which  pinch  me,  and,  as  I  fancy,  more  natu- 

H 


170  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

rally  and  pathetically  than  if  my  neighbor's  corns  were 
trodden  under  foot.  I  prattle  about  the  dish  which  I 
love,  the  wine  which  I  like,  the  talk  I  heard  yesterday 
— about  Brown's  absurd  airs — Jones's  ridiculous  ela- 
tion when  he  thinks  he  has  caught  me  in  a  blunder  (a 
part  of  the  fun,  you  see,  is  that  Jones  will  read  this, 
and  will  perfectly  well  know  that  I  mean  him,  and 
that  we  shall  meet  and  grin  at  each  other  with  entire 
politeness).  This  is  not  the  highest  kind  of  specula- 
tion, I  confess,  but  it  is  a  gossip  which  amuses  some 
folks.  A  brisk  and  honest  small-beer  will  refresh 
those  who  do  not  care  for  the  frothy  outpourings  of 
heavier  taps.  A  two  of  clubs  may  be  a  good,  handy 
little  card  sometimes,  and  able  to  tackle  a  king  of  dia- 
monds, if  it  is  a  little  trump.  Some  philosophers  get 
their  wisdom  with  deep  thought  and  out  of  ponderous 
libraries ;  I  pick  up  my  small  crumbs  of  cogitation  at 
a  dinner-table,  or  from  Mrs.  Mary  and  Miss  Louisa  as 
they  are  prattling  over  their  five  o'clock  tea. 

Well,  yesterday  at  dinner  Jucundus  was  good  enough 
to  tell  me  a  story  about  myself,  which  he  had  heard 
from  a  lady  of  his  acquaintance,  to  whom  I  send  my 
best  compliments.  The  tale  is  this.  At  nine  o'clock 
on  the  evening  of  the  31st  of  November  last,  just  be- 
fore sunset,  I  was  seen  leaving  No.  96  Abbey  Koad, 
St.  John's  Wood,  leading  two  little  children  by  the 
hand,  one  of  them  in  a  nankeen  pelisse,  and  the  other 
having  a  mole  on  the  third  finger  of  his  left  hand  (she 
thinks  it  was  the  third  finger,  but  is  quite  sure  it  was 
the  left  hand).  Thence  I  walked  with  them  to  Charles 
Boroughbridge's,  pork  and  sausage  man,  No.  29  Upper 
Theresa  Koad.     Here,  while  I  left  the  little  girl  inno- 


ON  A  HUNDKED   YEARS  HENCE.  171 

cently  eating  a  polony  in  the  front  shop,  I  and  Bor- 
oughbridge  retired  with  the  boy  into  the  back  par- 
lor, where  Mrs.  Boroughbridge  was  playing  cribbage. 
She  put  up  the  cards  and  boxes,  took  out  a  chopper 
and  a  napkin,  and  we  cut  the  little  boy's  little  throat 
(which  he  bore  with  great  pluck  and  resolution),  and 
made  him  into  sausage-meat  by  the  aid  of  Purkis's  ex- 
cellent sausage-machine.  The  little  girl  at  first  could 
not  understand  her  brother's  absence,  but,  under  the 
pretense  of  taking  her  to  see  Mr.  Fechter  in  Hamlet,  I 
led  her  down  to  the  New  Eiver  at  Sadler's  Wells, 
where  a  body  of  a  child  in  a  nankeen  pelisse  was  sub- 
sequently found,  and  has  never  been  recognized  to  the 
present  day.  And  this  Mrs.  Lynx  can  aver,  because 
she  saw  the  whole  transaction  with  her  own  eyes,  as 
she  told  Mr.  Jucundus. 

I  have  altered  the  little  details  of  the  anecdote  some- 
what. But  this  story  is,  I  vow  and  declare,  as  true  as 
Mrs.  Lynx's.  Gracious  goodness !  how  do  lies  begin  ? 
What  are  the  averages  of  lying  ?  Is  the  same  amount 
of  lies  told  about  every  man,  and  do  we  pretty  much 
all  tell  the  same  amount  of  lies  ?  Is  the  average  great- 
er in  Ireland  than  in  Scotland,  or  vice  versa — among 
women  than  among  men  ?  Is  this  a  lie  I  am  telling 
now  ?  If  I  am  talking  about  you,  the  odds  are,  per- 
haps, that  it  is.  I  look  back  at  some  which  have  been 
told  about  me,  and  speculate  on  them  with  thanks  and 
wonder.  Dear  friends  have  told  them  of  me,  have 
told  them  to  me  of  myself.  Have  they  not  to  and  of 
you,  dear  friend?  A  friend  of  mine  was  dining  at  a 
large  dinner  of  clergymen,  and  a  story,  as  true  as  the 
sausage  story  above  given,  was  told  regarding  me  by 


172  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

one  of  those  reverend  divines,  in  whose  frocks  sit  some 
anile  chatterboxes,  as  any  man,  who  knows  this  world, 
knows.  They  take  the  privilege  of  their  gown.  They 
cabal,  and  tattle,  and  hiss,  and  cackle  comminations 
under  their  breath.  I  say  the  old  women  of  the  other 
sex  are  not  more  talkative  or  more  mischievous  than 
some  of  these.  "  Such  a  man  ought  not  to  be  spoken 
to,"  says  Grobemouche,  narrating  the  story — and  such 
a  story!  "And  I  am  surprised  he  is  admitted  into 
society  at  all."  Yes,  dear  Gobemouche,  but  the  story 
wasn't  true ;  and  I  had  no  more  done  the  wicked  deed 
in  question  than  I  had  run  away  with  the  Queen  of 
Sheba. 

I  have  always  longed  to  know  what  that  story  was 
(or  what  collection  of  histories)  which  a  lady  had  in 
her  mind  to  whom  a  servant  of  mine  applied  for  a 
place,  when  I  was  breaking  up  my  establishment  once, 
and  going  abroad.  Brown  went  with  a  very  good 
character  from  us,  which,  indeed,  she  fully  deserved 
after  several  years'  faithful  service.  But  when  Mrs. 
Jones  read  the  name  of  the  person  out  of  whose  em- 
ployment Brown  came,  "  That  is  quite  sufficient,"  says 
Mrs.  Jones.  "  You  may  go.  I  will  never  take  a  serv- 
ant out  of  that  house."  Ah  !  Mrs.  Jones,  how  I  should 
like  to  know  what  that  crime  was,  or  what  that  series 
of  villainies,  which  made  you  determine  never  to  take 
a  servant  out  of  my  house.  Do  you  believe  in  the 
story  of  the  little  boy  and  the  sausages  ?  Have  you 
swallowed  that  little  minced  infant  ?  Have  you  de- 
voured that  young  Polonius?  Upon  my  word,  you 
have  maw  enough.  We  somehow  greedily  gobble 
down  all  stories  in  which  the  characters  of  our  friends 


ON  A  HUNDRED  YEARS  HENCE.       173 

are  chopped  up,  and  believe  wrong  of  them  without 
inquiry.  In  a  late  serial  work  written  by  this  hand, 
I  remember  making  some  pathetic  remarks  about  our 
propensity  to  believe  ill  of  our  neighbors ;  and  I  re- 
member the  remarks,  not  because  they  were  valuable, 
or  novel,  or  ingenious,  but  because,  within  three  days 
after  they  had  appeared  in  print,  the  moralist  who 
wrote  them,  walking  home  with  a  friend,  heard  a  story 
about  another  friend,  which  story  he  straightway  be- 
lieved, and  which  story  was  scarcely  more  true  than 
that  sausage  fable  which  is  here  set  down.  0  mea 
culpa,  mea  maxima  culpa  !  But,  though  the  preacher 
trips,  shall  not  the  doctrine  be  good  ?  Yea,  brethren ! 
Here  be  the  rods.  Look  you,  here  are  the  scourges. 
Choose  me  a  nice  long,  swishing,  buddy  one,  light  and 
well-poised  in  the  handle,  thick  and  bushy  at  the  tail. 
Pick  me  out  a  whipcord  thong  with  some  dainty  knots 
in  it — and  now — we  all  deserve  it — whish!  whish! 
whish !     Let  us  cut  into  each  other  all  round. 

A  favorite  liar  and  servant  of  mine  was  a  man  I 
once  had  to  drive  a  brougham.  He  never  came  to 
my  house  except  for  orders,  and  once  when  he  help- 
ed to  wait  at  dinner  so  clumsily  that  it  was  agreed  we 
would  dispense  with  his  farther  efforts.  The  (job) 
brougham  horse  used  to  look  dreadfully  lean  and 
tired,  and  the  livery-stable-keeper  complained  that 
we  worked  him  too  hard.  Now  it  turned  out  that 
there  was  a  neighboring  butcher's  lady  who  liked  to 
ride  in  a  brougham,  and  Tomkins  lent  her  ours,  drove 
her  cheerfully  to  Eichmond  and  Putney,  and,  I  sup- 
pose, took  out  a  payment  in  mutton-chops.  We  gave 
this  good  Tomkius  wine  and  medicine  for  his  family 


174  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

when  sick ;  we  supplied  him  with  little  comforts  and 
extras  which .  need  not  now  be  remembered ;  and  the 
grateful  creature  rewarded  us  by  informing  some  of 
our  tradesmen  whom  he  honored  with  his  custom, 
"Mr.  Eoundabout?  Lor  bless  you  !  I  carry  him  up 
to  bed  drunk  every  night  in  the  week" — he,  Tom- 
kins,  being  a  man  of  seven  stone  weight  and  five  feet 
high,  whereas  his  employer  was — but  here  modesty 
interferes,  and  I  decline  to  enter  into  the  avoirdupois 
question. 

Now,  what  was  Tomkins's  motive  for  the  utterance 
and  dissemination  of  these  lies?  They  could  further 
no  conceivable  end  or  interest  of  his  own.  Had  they 
been  true  stories,  Tomkins's  master  would  still,  and 
reasonably,  have  been  more  angry  than  at  the  fables. 
It  was  but  suicidal  slander  on  the  part  of  Tomkins — 
must  come  to  a  discovery — must  end  in  a  punishment. 
The  poor  wretch  had  got  his  place  under,  as  it  turned 
out,  a  fictitious  character.  He  might  have  staid  in  it, 
for  of  course  Tomkins  had  a  wife  and  poor  innocent 
children.  He  might  have  had  bread,  beer,  bed,  char- 
acter, coats,  coals.  He  might  have  nestled  in  our  lit- 
tle island,  comfortably  sheltered  from  the  storms  of 
life ;  but  we  were  compelled  to  cast  him  out,  and  send 
him  driving,  lonely,  perishing,  tossing,  starving,  to  sea 
— to  drown.  To  drown  ?  There  be  other  modes  of 
death  whereby  rogues  die.  Good-by,  Tomkins.  And 
so  the  night-cap  is  put  on,  and  the  bolt  is  drawn  for 
poor  T. 

Suppose  we  were  to  invite  volunteers  among  our 
respected  readers  to  send  in  little  statements  of  the 
lies  which  they  know  have  been  told  about  them- 


ON  A  HUNDRED  YEARS  HENCE.  175 

selves ;  what  a  heap  of  correspondence,  what  an  ex- 
aggeration of  malignities,  what  a  crackling  bonfire  of 
incendiary  falsehoods  might  we  not  gather  together ! 
And  a  lie  once  set  going,  having  the  breath  of  life 
breathed  into  it  by  the  father  of  lying,  and  ordered  to 
run  its  diabolical  little  course,  lives  with  a  prodigious 
vitality.  You  say,  "Magna  est  Veritas  et pr&valebit" 
Pshaw  !  Great  lies  are  as  great  as  great  truths,  and 
prevail  constantly,  and  day  after  day.  Take  an  in- 
stance or  two  out  of  my  own  little  budget.  I  sit  near 
a  gentleman  at  dinner,  anc|  the  conversation  turns 
upon  a  certain  anonymous  literary  performance  which 
at  the  time  is  amusing  the  town.  "  Oh,"  says  the 
gentleman,  "every  body  knows  who  wrote  that  pa- 
per; it  is  Momus's."  I  was  a  young  author  at  the 
time,  perhaps  proud  of  my  bantling:  "I  beg  your 
pardon,"  I  say,  "  it  was  written  by  your  humble  serv- 
ant," "Indeed!"  was  all  that  the  man  replied,  and 
he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  turned  his  back,  and  talk- 
ed to  his  other  neighbor.  I  never  heard  sarcastic  in- 
credulity more  finely  conveyed  than  by  that  "  indeed." 
"  Impudent  liar,"  the  gentleman's  face  said,  as  clear  as 
face  could  speak.  Where  was  Magna  Veritas,  and 
how  did  she  prevail  then  ?  She  lifted  up  her  voice, 
she  made  her  appeal,  and  she  was  kicked  out  of  court. 
In  New  York  I  read  a  newspaper  criticism  one  day 
(by  an  exile  from  our  shores  who  has  taken  up  his 
abode  in  the  Western  Kepublic),  commenting  upon  a 
letter  of  mine  which  had  appeared  in  a  contemporary 
volume,  and  wherein  it  was  stated  that  the  writer  was 
a  lad  in  such  and  such  a  year,  and,  in  point  of  fact,  I 
was,  at  the  period  spoken  of,  nineteen  years  of  age. 


176  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

"Falsehood,  Mr. Koundabout,"  says  the  noble  critic; 
"  you  were  not  then  a  lad ;  you  were  then  six-and- 
twenty  years  of  age."  You  see  he  knew  better  than 
papa,  and  mamma,  and  parish  register.  It  was  easier 
for  him  to  think  and  say  I  lied,  on  a  twopenny  matter 
connected  with  my  own  affairs,  than  to  imagine  he 
was  mistaken.  Years  ago,  in  a  time  when  we  were 
very  mad  wags,  Arcturus  and  myself  met  a  gentle- 
man from  China  who  knew  the  language.  We  be- 
gan to  speak  Chinese  against  him.  We  said  we  were 
born  in  China.  We  were  two  to  one.  We  spoke 
the  mandarin  dialect  with  perfect  fluency.  We  had 
the  company  with  us ;  as  in  the  old,  old  days,  the 
squeak  of  the  real  pig  was  voted  not  to  be  so  natural 
as  the  squeak  of  the  sham  pig.  Oh  Arcturus,  the 
sham  pig  squeaks  in  our  streets  now  to  the  applause 
of  multitudes,  and  the  real  porker  grunts  unheeded 
in  his  sty ! 

I  once  talked  for  some  little  time  with  an  amiable 
lady ;  it  was  for  the  first  time  ;  and  I  saw  an  expres- 
sion of  surprise  on  her  kind  face,  which  said  as  plain- 
ly as  face  could  say,  "  Sir,  do  you  know  that  up  to 
this  moment  I  have  had  a  certain  opinion  of  you,  and 
that  I  begin  to  think  I  have  been  mistaken  or  mis- 
led?" I  not  only  know  that  she  had  heard  evil  re- 
ports of  me,  but  I  know  who  told  her — one  of  those 
acute  fellows,  my  dear  brethren,  of  whom  we  spoke 
in  a  previous  sermon,  who  has  found  me  out — found 
out  actions  which  I  never  did,  found  out  thoughts 
and  sayings  which  I  never  spoke,  and  judged  me  ac- 
cordingly. Ah !  my  lad,  have  I  found  you  out  ?  0 
risum  teneatis.  Perhaps  the  person  I  am  accusing  is 
no  more  guilty  than  I. 


ON  A  HUNDRED  YEARS  HENCE.       177 

How  comes  it  that  the  evil  which  men  say  spreads 
so  widely  and  lasts  so  long,  while  our  good,  kind 
words  don't  seem  somehow  to  take  root  and  bear 
blossom  ?  Is  it  that  in  the  stony  hearts  of  mankind 
these  pretty  flowers  can't  find  a  place  to  grow  ?  Cer- 
tain it  is  that  scandal  is  good  brisk  talk,  whereas 
praise  of  one's  neighbor  is  by  no  means  lively  hear- 
ing. An  acquaintance  grilled,  scored,  deviled,  and 
served  with  mustard  and  Cayenne  pepper,  excites  the 
appetite,  whereas  a  slice  of  cold  friend  with  currant 
jelly  is  but  a  sickly,  unrelishing  meat. 

Now,  such  being  the  case,  my  dear  worthy  Mrs. 
Candor,  in  whom  I  know  there  are  a  hundred  good 
and  generous  qualities,  it  being  perfectly  clear  that 
the  good  things  which  we  say  of  our  neighbors  don't 
fructify,  but  somehow  perish  in  the  ground  where 
they  are  dropped,  while  the  evil  words  are  wafted  by 
all  the  winds  of  scandal,  take  root  in  all  soils,  and 
flourish  amazingly — seeing,  I  say,  that  this  conversa- 
tion does  not  give  us  a  fair  chance,  suppose  we  give 
up  censoriousness  altogether,  and  decline  uttering  our 
opinions  about  Brown,  Jones,  and  Robinson  (and  Mes- 
dames  B.,  J.,  and  R)  at  all  ?  We  may  be  mistaken 
about  every  one  of  them,  as,  please  goodness,  those 
anecdote-mongers  against  whom  I  have  uttered  my 
meek  protest  have  been  mistaken  about  me.  We 
need  not  go  to  the  extent  of  saying  that  Mrs.  Man- 
ning was  an  amiable  creature,  much  misunderstood ; 
and  Jack  Thurtell  a  gallant,  unfortunate  fellow,  not 
near  so  black  as  he  was  painted  ;  but  we  will  try  and 
avoid  personalities  altogether  in  talk,  won't  we  ?  We 
will  range  the  fields  of  science,  dear  madam,  and  com- 

H2 


178  ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS. 

municate  to  each  other  the  pleasing  results  of  our  stud- 
ies. We  will,  if  you  please,  examine  the  infinitesimal 
wonders  of  nature  through  the  microscope.  We  will 
cultivate  entomology.  We  will  sit  with  our  arms 
round  each  other's  waists  on  the  pons  asinorum,  and 
see  the  stream  of  mathematics  flow  beneath.  We 
will  take  refuge  in  cards,  and  play  at  "beggar  my 
neighbor,"  not  abuse  my  neighbor.  We  will  go  to 
the  Zoological  Gardens,  and  talk  freely  about  the  go- 
rilla and  his  kindred,  but  not  talk  about  people  who 
can  talk  in  their  turn.  Suppose  we  praise  the  High 
Church  ?  we  offend  the  Low  Church.  The  Broad 
Church?  High  and  Low  are  both  offended.  What 
do  you  think  of  Lord  Derby  as  a  politician  ?  And 
what  is  your  opinion  of  Lord  Palmerston  ?  If  you 
please,  will  you  play  me  those  lovely  variations  of 
"  In  my  cottage  near  a  wood  ?"  It  is  a  charming 
air  (you  know  it  in  French,  I  suppose  ?  Ah !  te  di- 
rai-je,  maman  /),  and  was  a  favorite  with  poor  Marie 
Antoinette.  I  say  "  poor"  because  I  have  a  right  to 
speak  with  pity  of  a  sovereign  who  was  renowned  for 
so  much  beauty  and  so  much  misfortune.  But  as  for 
giving  any  opinion  on  her  conduct,  saying  that  she 
was  good  or  bad,  or  indifferent,  goodness  forbid !  We 
have  agreed  we  will  not  be  censorious.  Let  us  have 
a  game  at  cards — at  ecarte,  if  you  please.  You  deal. 
I  ask  for  cards.     I  lead  the  deuce  of  clubs.     .     .     . 

What  ?  there  is  no  deuce !  Deuce  take  it !  What  ? 
People  will  go  on  talking  about  their  neighbors,  and 
won't  have  their  mouths  stopped  by  cards,  or  ever  so 
much  microscopes  and  aquariums?  Ah!  my  poor 
dear  Mrs.  Candor,  I  agree  with  you.     By  the  way, 


ON   A   HUNDRED   YEARS   HENCE.  179 

did  you  ever  see  any  thing  like  Lady  Godiva  Trot- 
ter's dress  last  night  ?  People  will  go  on  chattering, 
although  we  hold  our  tongues;  and,  after  all,  my 
good  soul,  what  will  their  scandal  matter  a  hundred 
years  hence  ? 


180 


ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 


SMALL-BEER  CHRONICLE, 


OT  long  since,  at  a 
certain  banquet,  I 
had  the  good  for- 
tune to  sit  by  Doc- 
tor Polymathesis, 
who  knows  every 
thing,  and  .  who, 
about  the  time  when 
the  claret  made  its 
appearance,  men- 
tioned that  old  dic- 
tum of  the  grum- 
s  bling  Oxford  Don, 
that  "All  claret 
would  be  port  if  it  could!"  Imbibing  a  bumper  of  one 
or  the  other  not  ungratefully,  I  thought  to  myself, 
"  Here  surely,  Mr.  Eoundabout,  is  a  good  text  for  one 
of  your  reverence's  sermons."  Let  us  apply  to  the 
human  race,  dear  brethren,  what  is  here  said  of  the 
vintages  of  Portugal  and  Grascony,  and  we  shall  have 
no  difficulty  in  perceiving  how  many  clarets  aspire  to 
be  ports  in  their  way ;  how  most  men  and  women  of 
our  acquaintance,  how  we  ourselves,  are  Aquitanians 
giving  ourselves  Lusitanian   airs;  how  we  wish  to 


SMALL-BEER   CHRONICLE.  181 

have  credit  for  being  stronger,  braver,  more  beautiful, 
more  worthy  than  we  really  are. 

Nay,  the  beginning  of  this  hypocrisy — a  desire  to 
excel,  a  desire  to  be  hearty,  fruity,  generous,  strength- 
imparting — is  a  virtuous  and  noble  ambition  ;  and  it 
is  most  difficult  for  a  man  in  his  own  case,  or  his 
neighbor's,  to  say  at  what  point  this  ambition  trans- 
gresses the  boundary  of  virtue,  and  becomes  vanity, 
pretense,  and  self-seeking.  You  are  a  poor  man,  let 
us  say,  showing  a  bold  face  to  adverse  fortune,  and 
wearing  a  confident  aspect.  Your  purse  is  very  nar- 
row, but  you  owe  no  man  a  penny ;  your  means  are 
scanty,  but  your  wife's  gown  is  decent ;  your  old  coat 
well  brushed ;  your  children  at  a  good  school ;  you 
grumble  to  no  one  ;  ask  favors  of  no  one  ;  truckle  to 
no  neighbors  on  account  of  their  superior  rank,  or  (a 
worse,  and  a  meaner,  and  a  more  common  crime  still) 
envy  none  for  their  better  fortune.  To  all  outward 
appearances  you  are  as  well  to  do  as  your  neighbors, 
who  have  thrice  your  income.  There  may  be  in  this 
case  some  little  mixture  of  pretension  in  your  life  and 
behavior.  You  certainly  do  put  on  a  smiling  face 
while  fortune  is  pinching  you.  Your  wife  and  girls, 
so  smart  and  neat  at  evening  parties,  are  cutting, 
patching,  and  cobbling  all  day  to  make  both  ends  of 
life's  haberdashery  meet.  You  give  a  friend  a  bottle 
of  wine  on  occasion,  but  are  content  yourself  with  a 
glass  of  whisky  and  water.  You  avoid  a  cab,  saying 
that  of  all  things  you  like  to  walk  home  after  dinner 
(which  you  know,  my  good  friend,  is  a  fib).  I  grant 
you  that  in  this  scheme  of  life  there  does  enter  ever  so 
little  hypocrisy ;  that  this  claret  is  loaded,  as  it  were  ; 


182  ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS. 

but  your  desire  to  portify  yourself  is  amiable,  is  par- 
donable, is  perhaps  honorable ;  and  were  there  no  oth- 
er hypocrisies  than  yours  in  the  world,  we  should  be 
a  set  of  worthy  fellows  ;  and  sermonizers,  moralizers, 
satirizers,  would  have  to  hold  their  tongues,  and  go  to 
some  other  trade  to  get  a  living. 

But  you  know  you  will  step  over  that  boundary- 
line  of  virtue  and  modesty  into  the  district  where 
humbug  and  vanity  begin,  and  there  the  moralizer 
catches  you  and  makes  an  example  of  you.  For  in- 
stance, in  a  certain  novel  in  another  place  my  friend 
Mr.  Talbot  Twysden  is  mentioned — a  man  whom  you 
and  I  know  to  be  a  wretched  ordinaire,  but  who  per- 
sists in  treating  himself  as  if  he  was  the  finest  '20  port. 
In  our  Britain  there  are  hundreds  of  men  like  him, 
forever  striving  to  swell  beyond  their  natural  size,  to 
strain  beyond  their  natural  strength,  to  step  beyond 
their  natural  stride.  Search — search  within  your  own 
waistcoats,  dear  brethren ;  you  know  in  your  hearts 
which  of  your  ordinaire  qualities  you  would  pass  off, 
and  fain  consider  as  first-rate  port?  And  why  not 
you  yourself,  Mr.  Preacher?  says  the  congregation. 
Dearly  beloved,  neither  in  nor  out  of  this  pulpit  do  I 
profess  to  be  bigger,  or  cleverer,  or  wiser,  or  better 
than  any  of  you.  A  short  while  since,  a  certain  Ke- 
viewer  announced  that  I  gave  myself  great  pretensions 
as  a  philosopher.  I  a  philosopher !  I  advance  pre- 
tensions !  My  dear  Saturday  friend ;  and  you  ?  Don't 
you  teach  every  thing  to  every  body  ?  and  punish  the 
naughty  boys  if  they  don't  learn  as  you  bid  them? 
You  teach  politics  to  Lord  John  and  Mr.  Gladstone. 
You  teach  poets  how  to  write ;  painters  how  to  paint ; 


SMALL-BEER   CHRONICLE.  183 

gentlemen,  manners ;  and  opera-dancers  how  to  pirou- 
ette. I  was  not  a  little  amused  of  late  by  an  instance 
of  the  modesty  of  our  Saturday  friend,  who,  more 
Athenian  than  the  Athenians,  and  apropos  of  a  Greek 
book  by  a  Greek  author,  sat  down  and  gravely  showed 
the  Greek  gentleman  how  to  write  his  own  language. 

No,  I  do  not,  as  far  as  I  know,  try  to  be  port  at  all ; 
but  offer  in  these  presents  a  sound,  genuine  ordinaire, 
at  18s.  per  doz.  let  us  say,  grown  on  my  own  hill-side, 
and  offered  de  bon  coeur  to  those  who  will  sit  down 
under  my  tonndle,  and  have  a  half-hour's  drink  and 
gossip.  It  is  none  of  your  hot  porto,  my  friend.  I 
know  there  is  much  better  and  stronger  liquor  else- 
where. Some  pronounce  it  sour ;  some  say  it  is  thin ; 
some  that  it  has  wofully  lost  its  flavor.  This  may  or 
may  not  be  true.  There  are  good  and  bad  years; 
years  that  surprise  every  body ;  years  of  which  the 
produce  is  small  and  bad,  or  rich  and  plentiful.  But 
if  my  tap  is  not  genuine  it  is  naught,  and  no  man 
should  give  himself  the  trouble  to  drink  it.  I  do  not 
even  say  that  I  would  be  port  if  I  could,  knowing  that 
port  (by  which  I  would  imply  much  stronger,  deeper, 
richer,  and  more  durable  liquor  than  my  vineyard  can 
furnish)  is  not  relished  by  all  palates,  or  suitable  to  all 
heads.  We  will  assume  then,  dear  brother,  that  you 
and  I  are  tolerably  modest  people ;  and,  ourselves  be- 
ing thus  out  of  the  question,  proceed  to  show  how  pre- 
tentious our  neighbors  are,  and  how  very  many  of 
them  would  be  port  if  they  could. 

Have  you  never  seen  a  small  man  from  college 
placed  among  great  folk,  and  giving  himself  the  airs 
of  a  man  of  fashion  ?     He  goes  back  to  his  common 


184  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

room  with  fond  reminiscences  of  Ermine  Castle  or 
Strawberry  Hall.  He  writes  to  the  dear  countess  to 
say  that  dear  Lord  Lollypop  is  getting  on  very  well  at 
St.  Boniface,  and  that  the  accident  which  he  met  with 
in  a  scuffle  with  an  inebriated  bargeman  only  showed 
his  spirit  and  honor,  and  will  not  permanently  disfig- 
ure his  lordship's  nose.  He  gets  his  clothes  from  dear 
Lollypop's  London  tailor,  and  wears  a  mauve  or  ma- 
genta tie  when  he  rides  out  to  see  the  hounds.  A  love 
of  fashionable  people  is  a  weakness,  I  do  not  say  of 
all,  but  of  some  tutors.  Witness  that  Eton  tutor  t'other 
day,  who  intimated  that  in  Cornhill  we  could  not  un- 
derstand the  perfect  purity,  delicacy,  and  refinement 
of  those  genteel  families  who  sent  their  sons  to  Eton. 
Oh  usher,  mon  ami  !  Old  Sam  Johnson,  who,  too,  had 
been  an  usher  in  his  early  life,  kept  a  little  of  that 
weakness  always.  Suppose  Goldsmith  had  knocked 
him  up  at  three  in  the  morning  and  proposed  a  boat 
to  Greenwich,  as  Topham  Beauclerc  and  his  friend  did, 
would  he  have  said,  "  What,  my  boy,  are  you  for  a 
frolic?  I'm  with  you!"  and  gone  and  put  on  his 
clothes?  Eather  he  would  have  pitched  poor  Gold- 
smith down  stairs.  He  would  have  liked  to  be  port 
if  he  could.  Of  course  we  wouldn't.  Our  opinion  of 
the  Portugal  grape  is  known.  It  grows  very  high, 
and  is  very  sour,  and  we  don't  go  for  that  kind  of  grape 
at  all. 

"  I  was  walking  with  Mr.  Fox" — and  sure  this  anec- 
dote comes  very  pat  after  the  grapes — "  I  was  walking 
with  Mr.  Fox  in  the  Louvre,"  says  Benjamin  West 
(apud  some  paper  I  have  just  been  reading),  "  and  I 
remarked  how  many  people  turned  round  to  look  at 


SMALL-BEER   CHRONICLE.  185 

me.  This  shows  the  respect  of  the  French  for  the  fine 
arts."  This  is  a  curious  instance  of  a  very  small  claret 
indeed,  which  imagined  itself  to  be  port  of  the  stron- 
gest body.  There  are  not  many  instances  of  a  faith  so 
deep,  so  simple,  so  satisfactory  as  this.  I  have  met 
with  many  who  would  like  to  be  port,  but  with  few 
of  the  Gascon  sort,  who  absolutely  believe  they  were 
port.  George  III.  believed  in  West's  port,  and  thought 
Eeynolds's  overrated  stuff.  When  I  saw  West's  pic- 
tures at  Philadelphia,  I  looked  at  them  with  astonish- 
ment and  awe.  Hide,  blushing  glory,  hide  your  head 
under  your  old  night-cap.  Oh  immortality !  is  this 
the  end  of  you  ?  Did  any  of  you,  my  dear  brethren, 
ever  try  and  read  Blackmore's  Poems,  or  the  Epics  of 
Baour-Lormian,  or  the  Henriade,  or — what  shall  we 
say  ? — Pollok's  Course  of  Time  ?  They  were  thought 
to  be  more  lasting  than  brass  by  some  people,  and 
where  are  they  now  ?  And  our  masterpieces  of  liter- 
ature— our  ports — that,  if  not  immortal,  at  any  rate  are 
to  last  their  fifty,  their  hundred  years — oh,  sirs,  don't 
you  think  a  very  small  cellar  will  hold  them  ? 

Those  poor  people  in  brass,  on  pedestals,  hectoring 
about  Trafalgar  Square  and  that  neighborhood,  don't 
you  think  many  of  them — apart  even  from  the  ridic- 
ulous execution — cut  rather  a  ridiculous  figure,  and 
that  we  are  too  eager  to  set  up  our  ordinaire  heroism 
and  talent  for  port  ?  A  Duke  of  Wellington  or  two 
I  will  grant,  though  even  of  these  idols  a  moderate 
supply  will  be  sufficient.  Some  years  ago  a  famous 
and  witty  French  critic  was  in  London,  with  whom  I 
walked  the  streets.  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  I  in- 
formed him  (being  in  hopes  that  he  was  about  to  write 


186  ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS. 

some  papers  regarding  the  manners  and  customs  of 
this  country)  that  all  the  statues  he  saw  represented 
the  Duke  of  Wellington.  That  on  the  arch  opposite 
Apsley  House  ?  the  duke  in  a  cloak,  and  cocked  hat, 
on  horseback.  That  behind  Apsley  House  in  an  airy 
fig-leaf  costume  ?  the  duke  again.  That  in  Cockspur 
Street  ?  the  duke  with  a  pigtail — and  so  on.  I  showed 
him  an  army  of  dukes.  There  are  many  bronze  he- 
roes who  after  a  few  years  look  already  as  foolish, 
awkward,  and  out  of  place  as  a  man,  say  at  Shool- 
bred's  or  Swan  and  Edgar's.  For  example,  those 
three  Grenadiers  in  Pall  Mall,  who  have  been  up  only 
a  few  months,  don't  you  pity  those  unhappy  house- 
hold troops,  who  have  to  stand  frowning  and  looking 
fierce  there,  and  think  they  would  like  to  step  down 
and  go  to  barracks  ?  That  they  fought  very  bravely 
there  is  no  doubt ;  but  so  did  the  Russians  fight  very 
bravely ;  and  the  French  fight  very  bravely ;  and  so 
did  Colonel  Jones  and  the  99th,  and  Colonel  Brown 
and  the  100th ;  and  I  say  again  that  ordinaire  should 
not  give  itself  port  airs,  and  that  an  honest  ordinaire 
would  blush  to  be  found  swaggering  so.  I  am  sure  if 
you  could  consult  the  Duke  of  York,  who  is  impaled 
on  his  column  between  the  two  clubs,  and  ask  his  late 
Royal  Highness  whether  he  thought  he  ought  to  re- 
main there,  he  would  say  no.  A  brave,  worthy  man, 
not  a  braggart  or  boaster,  to  be  put  upon  that  heroic 
perch  must  be  painful  to  him.  Lord  George  Bentinck, 
I  suppose,  being  in  the  midst  of  the  family  park  in 
Cavendish  Square,  may  conceive  that  he  has  a  right 
to  remain  in  his  place.  But  look  at  William  of  Cum- 
berland, with  his  hat  cocked  over  his  eye,  prancing  be- 


SMALL-BEER  CHRONICLE.  187 

bind  Lord  George  on  his  Roman-nosed  charger;  he, 
depend  on  it,  would  be  for  getting  off  his  horse  if  he 
had  the  permission.  He  did  not  hesitate  about  trifles, 
as  we  know,  but  he  was  a  very  truth-telling  and  hon- 
orable soldier  ;  and  as  for  heroic  rank  and  statuesque 
dignity,  I  would  wager  a  dozen  of  '20  port  against  a 
bottle  of  pure  and  sound  Bordeaux,  at  18s.  per  dozen 
(bottles  included),  that  he  never  would  think  of  claim- 
ing any  such  absurd  distinction.  They  have  got  a 
statue  of  Thomas  Moore  at  Dublin,  I  hear.  Is  he  on 
horseback  ?  Some  men  should  have,  say,  a  fifty  years' 
lease  of  glory.  After  a  while  some  gentlemen  now  in 
brass  should  go  to  the  melting  furnace,  and  reappear 
in  some  other  gentleman's  shape.  Lately  I  saw  that 
Melville  column  rising  over  Edinburgh ;  come,  good 
men  and  true,  don't  you  feel  a  little  awkward  and  un- 
easy when  you  walk  under  it?  Who  was  this  to 
stand  in  heroic  places?  and  is  yon  the  man  whom 
Scotchmen  most  delight  to  honor?  I  must  own  def- 
erentially that  there  is  a  tendency  in  North  Britain  to 
overesteem  its  heroes.  Scotch  ale  is  very  good  and 
strong,  but  it  is  not  stronger  than  all  the  other  beer  in 
the  world,  as  some  Scottish  patriots  would  insist. 
When  there  has  been  a  war,  and  stout  old  Sandy 
Sansculotte  returns  home  from  India  or  Crimea,  what 
a  bagpiping,  shouting,  hurrahing,  and  self-glorification 
takes  place  round  about  him !  You  would  fancy,  to 
hear  M 'Orator  after  dinner,  that  the  Scotch  had  fought 
all  the  battles,  killed  all  the  Russians,  Indian  rebels, 
or  what  not.  In  Cupar-Fife  there's  a  little  inn  called 
the  "  Battle  of  Waterloo,"  and  what  do  you  think  the 
sign  is  ?     (I  sketch  from  memory,  to  be  sure.)     "  The 


188  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

Battle  of  Waterloo"  is  one  broad  Scotchman  laying 
about  him  with  a  broadsword.     Yes,  yes,  my  dear 


Mac,  you  are  wise,  you  are  good,  you  are  clever,  you 
are  handsome,  you  are  brave,  you  are  rich,  etc.,  but  so 
is  Jones  over  the  border.  Scotch  salmon  is  good,  but 
there  are  other  good  fish  in  the  sea.  I  once  heard  a 
Scotchman  lecture  on  poetry  in  London.  Of  course 
the  pieces  he  selected  were  chiefly  by  Scottish  authors, 
and  Walter  Scott  was  his  favorite  poet.  I  whispered 
to  my  neighbor,  who  was  a  Scotchman  (by  the  way, 
the  audience  were  almost  all  Scotch,  and  the  room  was 
All-Mac's — I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I  couldn't  help  it, 
I  really  couldn't  help  it),  "  The  professor  has  said  the 
best  poet  was  a  Scotchman :  I  wager  that  he  will  say 
the  worst  poet  was  a  Scotchman  too."  And  sure 
enough,  that  worst  poet,  when  he  made  his  appear- 
ance, was  a  Northern  Briton. 

And  as  we  are  talking  of  bragging,  and  I  am  on  my 


SMALL-BEER   CHRONICLE.  189 

travels,  can  I  forget  one  mighty  republic — one — two 
mighty  republics,  where  people  are  notoriously  fond 
of  passing  off  their  claret  for  port  ?  I  am  very  glad, 
for  the  sake  of  a  kind  friend,  that  there  is  a  great  and 
influential  party  in  the  United,  and,  I  trust,  in  the 
Confederate  States,  who  believe  that  Catawba  wine  is 
better  than  the  best  Champagne.  Opposite  that  fa- 
mous old  White  House  at  "Washington,  whereof  I 
shall  ever  have  a  grateful  memory,  they  have  set  up 
an  equestrian  statue  of  General  Jackson,  by  a  self- 
taught  American  artist  of  no  inconsiderable  genius  and 
skill.  At  an  evening  party  a  member  of  Congress 
seized  me  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  and  asked  me  if  I 
did  not  think  this  was  the  finest  equestrian  statue  in  the 
world?  How  was  I  to  deal  with  this  plain  question, 
put  to  me  in  a  corner  ?  I  was  bound  to  reply,  and 
accordingly  said  that  I  did  not  think  it  was  the  finest 
statue  in  the  world.     "  Well,  sir,"  says  the  member  of 

Congress,  "but  you  must  remember  that  Mr.  M 

had  never  seen  a  statue  when  he  made  this !"  I  sug- 
gested that  to  see  other  statues  might  do  Mr.  M 

no  harm.  Nor  was  any  man  more  willing  to  own  his 
defects,  or  more  modest  regarding  his  merits,  than  the 
sculptor  himself,  whom  I  met  subsequently.  But,  oh  ! 
what  a  charming  article  there  was  in  a  Washington 
paper  next  day  about  the  impertinence  of  criticism 
and  offensive  tone  of  arrogance  which  Englishmen 
adopted  toward  men  and  works  of  genius  in  America ! 
"Who  was  this  man,  who,  etc.,  etc."  The  Washing- 
ton writer  was  angry  because  I  would  not  accept  this 
American  claret  as  the  finest  port  wine  in  the  world. 
Ah  me !  It  is  about  blood,  and  not  wine,  that  the 
quarrel  now  is,  and  who  shall  foretell  its  end? 


190  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

How  much  claret  that  would  be  port  if  it  could  is 
handed  about  in  every  society !  In  the  House  of 
Commons,  what  small-beer  orators  try  to  pass  for 
strong !  Stay !  have  I  a  spite  against  any  one  ?  It 
is  a  fact  that  the  wife  of  the  member  for  Bungay  has 
left  off  asking  me  and  Mrs.  Eoundabout  to  her  even- 
ing parties.  Now  is  the  time  to  have  a  slap  at  him. 
I  will  say  that  he  was  always  overrated,  and  that  now 
he  is  lamentably  falling  off  from  what  he  has  been. 
I  will  back  the  member  for  Stoke  Pogis  against  him, 
and  show  that  the  dashing  young  member  for  Isling- 
ton is  a  far  sounder  man  than  either.  Have  I  any 
little  literary  animosities  ?  Of  course  not.  Men  of 
letters  never  have.  Otherwise,  how  I  could  serve  out 
a  competitor  here,  make  a  face  over  his  works,  and 
show  that  his  would-be  port  is  very  meagre  ordi- 
naire indeed  !  Nonsense,  man !  Why  so  squeam- 
ish ?  Do  they  spare  you  ?  Now  you  have  the  whip 
in  your  hand,  won't  you  lay  on  ?  You  used  to  be  a 
pretty  whip  enough  as  a  young  man,  and  liked  it  too. 
Is  there  no  enemy  who  would  be  the  better  for  a  lit- 
tle thonging  ?  No.  I  have  militated  in  former  times, 
not  without  glory ;  but  I  grow  peaceable  as  I  grow 
old.  And  if  I  have  a  literary  enemy,  why,  he  will 
probably  write  a  book  ere  long,  and  then  it  will  be 
his  turn,  and  my  favorite  review  will  be  down  upon 
him. 

My  brethren,  these  sermons  are  professedly  short ; 
for  I  have  that  opinion  of  my  dear  congregation 
which  leads  me  to  think  that,  were  I  to  preach  at 
great  length,  they  would  yawn,  stamp,  make  noises, 
and  perhaps  go  straightway  out  of  church ;  and  yet 


SMALL-BEER   CHRONICLE.  191 

with  this  text  I  protest  I  could  go  on  for  hours. 
What  multitudes  of  men,  what  multitudes  of  women, 
my  dears,  pass  off  their  ordinaire  for  port,  their  small 
beer  for  strong !  In  literature,  in  politics,  in  the  army, 
the  navy,  the  Church,  at  the  bar,  in  the  world,  what 
an  immense  quantity  of  cheap  liquor  is  made  to  do 
service  for  better  sorts  !  Ask  Sergeant  Kowland  his 
opinion  of  Oliver,  Q.  C.  "  Ordinaire,  my  good  fel- 
low, ordinaire,  with  a  port-wine  label !"  Ask  Oliver 
his  opinion  of  Eowland.  Never  was  a  man  so  over- 
rated by  the  world  and  by  himself.  Ask  Tweedle- 
dumski  his  opinion  of  Tweedledeestein's  performance. 
"A  quack,  my  tear  sir!  an  ignoramus,  I  geef  you  my 
vort !  He  gombose  an  opera !  He  is  not  fit  to  make 
dance  a  bear!"  Ask  Paddington  and  Buckmister, 
those  two  "  swells"  of  fashion,  what  they  think  of  each 
other.  They  are  notorious  ordinaire.  You  and  I 
remember  when  they  passed  for  very  small  wine,  and 
now  how  high  and  mighty  they  have  become !  What 
do  you  say  to  Tomlans's  sermons?  Ordinaire,  try- 
ing to  go  down  as  orthodox  port,  and  very  meagre 
ordinaire  too!  To  Hopkins's  historical  works?  to 
Pumkins's  poetry  ?  Ordinaire,  ordinaire  again — thin, 
feeble,  overrated ;  and  so  down  the  whole  list.  And 
when  we  have  done  discussing  our  men  friends,  have 
we  not  all  the  women  ?  Do  these  not  advance  absurd 
pretensions?  Do  these  never  give  themselves  airs? 
With  feeble  brains,  don't  they  often  set  up  to  be  es- 
prits  forts?  Don't  they  pretend  to  be  women  of  fash- 
ion, and  cut  their  betters  ?  Don't  they  try  and  pass 
off  their  ordinary -looking  girls  as  beauties  of  the  first 
order  ?     Every  man  in  his  circle  knows  women  who 


192  ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS. 

give  themselves  airs,  and  to  whom  we  can  apply  the 
port-wine  simile. 

Come,  my  friends,  here  is  enough  of  ordinaire  and 
port  for  to-day.  My  bottle  has  run  out.  Will  any 
body  have  any  more  ?  Let  us  go  up  stairs,  and  get  a 
cup  of  tea  from  the  ladies. 


OGRES. 


193 


OGRES. 


DAKE  say  the  reader 
has  remarked  that  the 
upright  and  independ- 
ent vowel,which  stands 
in  the  vowel -list  be- 
tween E  and  O,  has 
formed  the  subject  of 
the  main  part  of  these 
essays.  How  does4hat 
vowel  feel  this  morn- 
ing?— fresh,  good-hu- 
mored, and  lively  ? 
The  Eoundabout.lines 
which  fall  from  this 
pen  are  correspond- 
ingly brisk  and  cheer- 
ful. Has  any  thing,  on 
the  contrary,  disagreed 
with  the  vowel  ?  Has 
its  rest  been  disturbed, 
or  was  yesterday's  din- 
ner too  good,  or  yester- 
day's wine  not  good  enough?  Under  such  circum- 
stances, a  darkling,  misanthropic  tinge,  no  doubt,  is 
cast  upon  the  paper.     The  jokes,  if  attempted,  arc 


194  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

elaborate  and  dreary.  The  bitter  temper  breaks  out. 
That  sneering  manner  is  adopted,  which  you  know, 
and  which  exhibits  itself  so  especially  when  the  writer 
is  speaking  about  women.  A  moody  carelessness 
comes  over  him.  He  sees  no  good  in  any  body  or 
thing,  and  treats  gentlemen,  ladies,  history,  and  things 
in  general  with  a  like  gloomy  flippancy.  Agreed. 
When  the  vowel  in  question  is  in  that  mood,  if  you 
like  airy  gayety  and  tender  gushing  benevolence — if 
you  want  to  be  satisfied  with  yourself  and  the  rest  of 
your  fellow-beings,  I  recommend  you,  my  dear  crea- 
ture, to  go  to  some  other  shop  in  Cornhill,  or  turn  to 
some  other  article.  There  are  moods  in  the  mind  of 
the  vowel  of  which  we  are  speaking  when  it  is  ill- 
conditioned  and  captious.  Who  always  keeps  good 
health  and  good-humor?  Do  not  philosophers  grum- 
ble? Are  not  sages  sometimes  out  of  temper?  and 
do  not  an  gel- women  go  off  in  tantrums  ?  To-day  my 
mood  is  dark.  I  scowl  as  I  dip  my  pen  in  the  ink- 
stand. 

Here  is  the  day  come  round,  for  every  thing  here 
is  done  with  the  utmost  regularity :  intellectual  labor, 
sixteen  hours ;  meals,  thirty -two  minutes ;  exercise,  a 
hundred  and  forty-eight  minutes;  conversation  with 
the  family,  chiefly  literary,  and  about  the  housekeep- 
ing, one  hour  and  four  minutes ;  sleep,  three  hours 
and  fifteen  minutes  (at  the  end  of  the  month,  when 
the  Magazine  is  complete,  I  own  I  take  eight  minutes 
more) ;  and  the  rest  for  the  toilette  and  the  world. 
Well,  I  say,  the  Roundabout  Paper  Day  being  come, 
and  the  subject  long  since  settled  in  my  mind — an  ex- 
cellent subject  —  a  most  telling,  lively,  and  popular 


OGRES.  195 

subject — I  go  to  breakfast  determined  to  finish  that 
meal  in  9£  minutes,  as  usual,  and  then  retire  to  my 
desk  and  work,  when — oh,  provoking ! — here  in  the 
paper  is  the  very  subject  treated  on  which  I  was  go- 
ing to  write !  Yesterday  another  paper  which  I  saw 
treated  it,  and  of  course,  as  I  need  not  tell  you,  spoiled 
it.  Last  Saturday,  another  paper  had  an  article  on  the 
subject;  perhaps  you  may  guess  what  it  was, but  I 
won't  tell  you.  Only  this  is  true,  my  favorite  subject, 
which  was  about  to  make  the  best  paper  we  have  had 
for  a  long  time — my  bird,  my  game  that  I  was  going 
to  shoot  and  serve  up  with  such  a  delicate  sauce,  has 
been  found  by  other  sportsmen,  and  pop,  pop,  pop,  a 
half  dozen  of  guns  have  banged  at  it,  mangled  it,  and 
brought  it  down. 

"And  can't  you  take  some  other  text,"  say  you. 
All  this  is  mighty  well.  But  if  you  have  set  your 
heart  on  a  certain  dish  for  dinner,  be  it  cold  boiled 
veal,  or  what  you  will,  and  they  bring  you  turtle  and 
venison,  don't  you  feel  disappointed  ?  During  your 
walk  you  have  been  making  up  your  mind  that  that 
cold  meat,  with  moderation  and  a  pickle,  will  be  a  very 
sufficient  dinner ;  you  have  accustomed  your  thoughts 
to  it ;  and  here,  in  place  of  it,  is  a  turkey,  surrounded 
by  coarse  sausages,  or  a  reeking  pigeon-pie,  or  a  ful- 
some roast  pig.  I  have  known  many  a  good  and  kind 
man  made  furiously  angry  by  such  a  contretemps.  I 
have  known  him  lose  his  temper,  call  his  wife  and 
servants  names,  and  a  whole  household  made  miser- 
able. If,  then,  as  is  notoriously  the  case,  it  is  too  dan- 
gerous to  balk  a  man  about  his  dinner,  how  much 
more  about  his  article  ?     I  came  to  my  meal  with  an 


196  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

ogre-like  appetite  and  gusto.  Fee,  faw,  fum !  Wife, 
where  is  that  tender  little  Princekin?  Have  you 
trussed  him,  and  did  you  stuff  him  nicely,  and  have 
you  taken  care  to  baste  him  and  do  him,  not  too  brown, 
as  I  told  you  ?  Quick !  I  am  hungry  !  I  begin  to 
whet  my  knife,  to  roll  my  eyes  about,  and  roar  and 
clap  my  huge  chest  like  a  gorilla ;  and  then  my  poor 
Ogrina  has  to  tell  me  that  the  little  princes  have  all 
run  away  while  she  was  in  the  kitchen  making  the 
paste  to  bake  them  in !  I  pause  in  the  description. 
I  won't  condescend  to  report  the  bad  language  which 
you  know  must  ensue  when  an  ogre,  whose  mind  is 
ill  regulated,  and  whose  habits  of  self-indulgence  are 
notorious,  finds  himself  disappointed  of  his  greedy 
hopes.  What  treatment  of  his  wife,  what  abuse  and 
brutal  behavior  to  his  children,  who,  though  ogrillons, 
are  children !  My  dears,  you  may  fancy,  and  need 
not  ask  my  delicate  pen  to  describe,  the  language  and 
behavior  of  a  vulgar,  coarse,  greedy,  large  man  with 
an  immense  mouth  and  teeth,  which  are  too  frequent- 
ly employed  in  the  gobbling  and  crunching  of  raw 
man's  meat. 

And  in  this  circuitous  way  you  see  I  have  reached 
my  present  subject,  which  is  Ogres.  You  fancy  they 
are  dead  or  only  fictitious  characters — mythical  repre- 
sentatives of  strength,  cruelty,  stupidity,  and  lust  for 
blood?  Though  they  had  seven-leagued  boots,  you 
remember  all  sorts  of  little  whipping-snapping  Tom 
Thumbs  used  to  elude  and  outrun  them.  They  were 
so  stupid  that  they  gave  into  the  most  shallow  ambus- 
cades and  artifices :  witness  that  well-known  ogre,  who, 
because  Jack  cut  open  the  hasty-pudding,  instantly 


OGRES.  197 

ripped  open  his  own  stupid  waistcoat  and  interior. 
They  were  cruel,  brutal,  disgusting  with  their  sharp- 
ened teeth,  immense  knives,  and  roaring  voices,  but 
they  always  ended  by  being  overcome  by  little  Tom 
Thumbkins,  or  some  other  smart  little  champion. 

Yes,  they  were  conquered  in  the  end,  there  is  no 
doubt.  They  plunged  headlong  (and  uttering  the  most 
frightful  bad  language)  into  some  pit  where  Jack  came 
with  his  smart  couteau  de  chasse  and  whipped  their 
brutal  heads  off.  They  would  be  going  to  devour 
maidens — 

But  ever  when  it  seemed 

Their  need  was  at  the  sorest, 
A  knight,  in  armor  bright, 

Came  riding  through  the  forest — 

and  down,  after  a  combat,  would  go  the  brutal  per- 
secutor, with  a  lance  through  his  midriff.  Yes,  I  say, 
this  is  very  true  and  well.  But  you  remember  that 
round  the  ogre's  cave  the  ground  was  covered  for 
hundreds  and  hundreds  of  yards  with  the  bones  of  the 
victims  whom  he  had  lured  into  the  castle.  Many 
knights  and  maids  came  to  him  and  perished  under 
his  knife  and  teeth.  Were  dragons  the  same  as  ogres  ? 
monsters  dwelling  in  caverns,  whence  they  rushed,  at- 
tired in  plate  armor,  wielding  pikes  and  torches,  and 
destroying  stray  passengers  who  passed  by  their  lair  ? 
Monsters,  brutes,  rapacious  tyrants,  ruffians  as  they 
were,  doubtless  they  ended  by  being  overcome.  *  But, 
before  they  were  destroyed,  they  did  a  deal  of  mis- 
chief. The  bones  round  their  caves  were  countless. 
They  had  sent  many  brave  souls  to  Hades  before  their 
own  fled,  howling  out  of  their  rascal  carcasses,  to  the 
same  place  of  gloom. 


198  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

There  is  no  greater  mistake  than  to  suppose  that 
fairies,  champions,  distressed  damsels,  and,  by  conse- 
quence, ogres,  have  ceased  to  exist.  It  may  not  be 
ogreable  to  them  (pardon  the  horrible  pleasantry,  but, 
as  I  am  writing  in  the  solitude  of  my  chamber,  I  am 
grinding  my  teeth — yelling,  roaring,  and  cursing — 
brandishing  my  scissors  and  paper-cutter,  and,  as  it 
were,  have  become  an  ogre).  I  say  there  is  no  great- 
er mistake  than  to  suppose  that  ogres  have  ceased  to 
exist.  We  all  know  ogres.  Their  caverns  are  round 
us  and  about  us.  There  are  the  castles  of  several  ogres 
within  a  mile  of  the  spot  where  I  write.  I  think  some 
of  them  suspect  I  am  an  ogre  myself.  I  am  not,  but 
I  know  they  are.  I  visit  them.  I  don't  mean  to  say 
that  they  take  a  cold  roast  prince  out  of  the  cupboard, 
and  have  a  cannibal  feast  before  me.  But  I  see  the 
bones  lying  about  the  roads  to  their  houses,  and  in  the 
areas  and  gardens.  Politeness,  of  course,  prevents  me 
from  making  any  remarks;  but  I  know  them  well 
enough.  One  of  the  ways  to  know  'em  is  to  watch 
the  scared  looks  of  the  ogres'  wives  and  children. 
They  lead  an  awful  life.  They  are  present  at  dread- 
ful cruelties.  In  their  excesses  those  ogres  will  stab 
about,  and  kill  not  only  strangers  who  happen  to  call 
in  and  ask  a  night's  lodging,  but  they  will  outrage, 
murder,  and  chop  up  their  own  kin.  We  all  know 
ogres,  I  say,  and  have  been  in  their  dens  often.  It  is 
not  necessary  that  ogres  who  ask  you  to  dine  should 
offer  their  guests  the  peculiar  dish  which  they  like. 
They  can  not  always  get  a  Tom  Thumb  family.  They 
eat  mutton  and  beef  too,  and  I  dare  say  even  go  out 
to  tea,  and  invite  you  to  drink  it.    But  I  tell  you  there 


OGRES.  199 

are  numbers  of  them  going  about  in  the  world.  And 
now  you  have  my  word  for  it,  and  this  little  hint,  it 
is  quite  curious  what  an  interest  society  may  be  made 
to  have  for  you,  by  your  determining  to  find  out  the 
ogres  you  meet  there. 

What  does  the  man  mean  ?  says  Mrs.  Downright, 
to  whom  a  joke  is  a  very  grave  thing.  I  mean,  mad- 
am, that  in  the  company  assembled  in  your  genteel 
drawing-room,  who  bow  here  and  there,  and  smirk  in 
white  neckcloths,  you  receive  men  who  elbow  through 
life  successfully  enough,  but  who  are  ogres  in  private : 
men  wicked,  false,  rapacious,  flattering ;  cruel  hectors 
at  home ;  smiling  courtiers  abroad ;  causing  wives, 
children,  servants,  parents,  to  tremble  before  them, 
and  smiling  and  bowing  as  they  bid  strangers  welcome 
into  their  castles.  I  say,  there  are  men  who  have 
crunched  the  bones  of  victim  after  victim ;  in  whose 
closets  lie  skeletons  picked  frightfully  clean.  When 
these  ogres  come  out  into  the  world,  you  don't  suppose 
they  show  their  knives  and  their  great  teeth?  A 
neat,  simple  white  neckcloth,  a  merry,  rather  obsequi- 
ous manner,  a  cadaverous  look,  perhaps,  now  and 
again,  and  a  rather  dreadful  grin ;  but  I  know  ogres 
very  considerably  respected;  and  when  you  hint  to 
such  and  such  a  man,  "My  dear  sir,  Mr.  Sharpus, 
whom  you  appear  to  like,  is,  I  assure  you,  a  most 
dreadful  cannibal,"  the  gentleman  cries,  "  Oh,  pshaw ! 
nonsense !  Dare  say  not  so  black  as  he  is  painted. 
Dare  say  not  worse  than  his  neighbors."  We  con- 
done every  thing  in  this  country — private  treason, 
falsehood,  flattery,  cruelty  at  home,  roguery,  and 
double  dealing — What?     Do  you  mean  to  say  in 


200  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

your  acquaintance  you  don't  know  ogres  guilty  of 
countless  crimes  of  fraud  and  force,  and  that,  knowing 
them,  you  don't  shake  hands  with  them,  dine  with 
them  at  your  table,  and  meet  them  at  their  own  ?  De- 
pend upon  it,  in  the  time  when  there  were  real  live 
ogres  in  real  caverns  or  castles,  gobbling  up  real 
knights  and  virgins — when  they  went  into  the  world 
— the  neighboring  market-town,  let  us  say,  or  earl's 
castle  ;  though  their  nature  and  reputation  were  pret- 
ty well  known,  their  notorious  foibles  were  never  al- 
luded to.  You  would  say,  "  What,  Blunderbore,  my 
boy,  how  do  you  do  ?  How  well  and  fresh  you  look ! 
What's  the  receipt  you  have  for  keeping  so  young  and 
rosy?"  And  your  wife  would  softly  ask  after  Mrs. 
Blunderbore  and  the  dear  children.  Or  it  would  be, 
"  My  dear  Humguffln,  try  that  pork.  It  is  home-bred, 
home-fed,  and,  I  promise  you,  tender.  Tell  me  if  you 
think  it  is  as  good  as  yours  ?  John,  a  glass  of  Bur- 
gundy to  Colonel  Humguffin!"  You  don't  suppose 
there  would  be  any  unpleasant  allusions  to  disagreea- 
ble home-reports  regarding  Humgumn's  manner  of 
furnishing  his  larder  ?  I  say  we  all  of  us  know  ogres. 
We  shake  hands  and  dine  with  ogres.  And  if  incon- 
venient moralists  tell  us  we  are  cowards  for  our  pains, 
we  turn  round  with  a  tu  quoque,  or  say  that  we  don't 
meddle  with  other  folk's  affairs ;  that  people  are  much 
less  black  than  they  are  painted,  and  so  on.  What  ? 
Won't  half  the  county  go  to  Ogreham  Castle  ?  Won't 
some  of  the  clergy  say  grace  at  dinner  ?  Won't  the 
mothers  bring  their  daughters  to  dance  with  the  young 
Rawheads  ?  And  if  Lady  Ogreham  happens  to  die — 
I  won't  say  to  go  the  way  of  all  flesh,  that  is  too  re- 


OGRES.  201 

volting — I  say  if  Ogreham  is  a  widower,  do  you  aver, 
on  your  conscience  and  honor,  that  mothers  will  not 
be  found  to  offer  their  young  girls  to  supply  the  la- 
mented lady's  place  ?  How  stale  this  misanthropy  is  ? 
Something  must  have  disagreed  with  this  cynic.  Yes, 
my  good  woman.  I  dare  say  you  would  like  to  call 
another  subject.  Yes,  my  fine  fellow ;  ogre  at  home, 
supple  as  a  dancing-master  abroad,  and  shaking  in  thy 
pumps,  and  wearing  a  horrible  grin  of  sham  gayety  to 
conceal  thy  terror,  lest  I  should  point  thee  out :  thou 
art  prosperous  and  honored,  art  thou?  I  say  thou 
hast  been  a  tyrant  and  a  robber.  Thou  hast  plunder- 
ed the  poor.  Thou  hast  bullied  the  weak.  Thou  hast 
laid  violent  hands  on  the  goods  of  the  innocent  and 
confiding.  Thou  hast  made  a  prey  of  the  meek  and 
gentle  who  asked  for  thy  protection.  Thou  hast  been 
hard  to  thy  kinsfolk,  and  cruel  to  thy  family.  Go, 
monster !  Ah !  when  shall  little  Jack  come  and  drill 
daylight  through  thy  wicked  cannibal  carcass  ?  I  see 
the  ogre  pass  on,  bowing  right  and  left  to  the  com- 
pany ;  and  he  gives  a  dreadful  sidelong  glance  of  sus- 
picion as  he  is  talking  to  my  lord  bishop  in  the  corner 
there. 

Ogres  in  our  days  need  not  be  giants  at  all.  In  for- 
mer times,  and  in  children's  books,  where  it  is  neces- 
sary to  paint  your  moral  in  such  large  letters  that 
there  can  be  no  mistake  about  it,  ogres  are  made  with 
that  enormous  mouth  and  ratelier  which  you  know  of, 
and  with  which  they  can  swallow  down  a  baby,  al- 
most without  using  that  great  knife  which  they  always 
carry.  They  are  too  cunning  nowadays.  They  go 
about  in  society  slim,  small,  quietly  dressed,  and  show- 

12 


202  ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS. 

ing  no  especially  great  appetite.  In  my  own  young- 
days  there  used  to  be  play 'ogres — men  who  would 
devour  a  young  fellow  in  one  sitting,  and  leave  him 
without  a  bit  of  flesh  on  his  bones.  They  were  quiet, 
gentlemanlike-looking  people.  They  got  the  young- 
fellow  into  their  cave.  Champagne,  pate  de  foie-gras, 
and  numberless  good  things,  were  handed  about ;  and 
then,  having  eaten,  the  young  man  was  devoured  in 
his  turn.  I  believe  these  card  and  dice  ogres  have 
died  away  almost  as  entirely  as  the  hasty-pudding 
giants  whom  Tom  Thumb  overcame.  Now  there  are 
ogres  in  city  courts  who  lure  you  into .  their  dens. 
About  our  Cornish  mines  I  am  told  there  are  many 
most  plausible  ogres,  who  tempt  you  into  their  cav- 
erns and  pick  your  bones  there.  In  a  certain  newspa- 
per there  used  to  be  lately  a  whole  column  of  adver- 
tisements from  ogres  who  would  put  on  the  most 
plausible,  nay,  piteous  appearance,  in  order  to  inveigle 
their  victims.  You  would  read,  "A  tradesman,  estab- 
lished for  seventy  years  in  the  city,  and  known,  and 
much  respected  by  Messrs.  N.  M.  Bothschild  and  Bar- 
ing Brothers,  has  pressing  need  for  three  pounds  until 
next  Saturday.  He  can  give  security  for  half  a  mil- 
lion, and  forty  thousand  pounds  will  be  given  for  the 
use  of  the  loan,"  and  so  on  ;  or,  "An  influential  body 
of  capitalists  are  about  to  establish  a  company,  of 
which  the  business  will  be  enormous  and  the  profits 
proportionately  prodigious.  They  will  require  A  sec- 
retary, of  good  address  and  appearance,  at  a  salary 
of  two  thousand  per  annum.  He  need  not  be  able  to 
write,  but  address  and  manners  are  absolutely  neces- 
sary.    As  a  mark  of  confidence  in  the  company,  he 


OGRES.  203 

will  have  to  deposit,"  etc., ;  or,  "A  young  widow  (of 
pleasing  manners  and  appearance),  who  has  a  pressing 
necessity  for  four  pounds  ten  for  three  weeks,  offers 
her  Erard's  grand  piano,  valued  at  three  hundred 
guineas ;  a  diamond  cross  of  eight  hundred  pounds ; 
and  board  and  lodging  in  her  elegant  villa  near  Ban- 
bury Cross,  with  the  best  references  and  society,  in  re- 
turn for  the  loan."  I  suspect  these  people  are  ogres. 
There  are  ogres  and  ogres.  Polyphemus  was  a  great, 
tall,  one-eyed,  notorious  ogre,  fetching  his  victims  out 
of  a  hole,  and  gobbling  them  one  after  another.  There 
could  be  no  mistake  about  him.  But  so  were  the  Si- 
rens ogres — pretty  blue-eyed  things,  peeping  at  you 
coaxingly  from  out  of  the  water,  and  singing  their 
melodious  wheedles.  And  the  bones  round  their 
caves  were  more  numerous  than  the  ribs,  skulls,  and 
thigh  bones  round  the  cavern  of  hulking  Polypheme. 

To  the  castle  gates  of  some  of  these  monsters  up 
rides  the  dapper  champion  of  the  pen ;  puffs  boldly 
upon  the  horn  which  hangs  by  the  chain ;  enters  the 
hall  resolutely,  and  challenges  the  big  tyrant  sulking 
within.  We  defy  him  to  combat,  the  enormous  roar- 
ing ruffian.  "We  give  him  a  meeting  on  the  green 
plain  before  his  castle.  Green  ?  No  wonder  it  should 
be  green  :  it  is  manured  with  human  bones.  After  a 
few  graceful  wheels  and  curvets,  we  take  our  ground. 
We  stoop  over  our  saddle.  'Tis  but  to  kiss  the  lock- 
et of  our  lady-love's  hair.  And  now  the  visor  is  up ; 
the  lance  is  in  rest  (Gillott's  iron  is  the  point  for  me). 
A  touch  of  the  spur  in  the  gallant  sides  of  Pegasus, 
and  we  gallop  at  the  great  brute. 

"Cut  off  his  ugly  head,  Flibbertygibbet,  my  squire !" 


204  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

And  who  are  these  who  pour  out  of  the  castle  ?  the 
imprisoned  maidens,  the  maltreated  widows,  the  poor 
old  hoary  grandfathers,  who  have  been  locked  up  in 
the  dungeons  these  scores  and  scores  of  years,  writhing 
under  the  tyranny  of  that  ruffian !  Ah  !  ye  knights 
of  the  pen,  may  honor  be  your  shield,  and  truth  tip 
your  lances!  Be  gentle  to  all  gentle  people.  Be 
modest  to  women.  Be  tender  to  children.  And  as 
for  the  Ogre  Humbug,  out  sword  and  have  at  him. 


ON  TWO   ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS,  ETC.  205 


ON  TWO  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS  WHICH  I 
INTENDED  TO  WRITE. 


We  have  all  heard  of  a  place  paved  with  good  in- 
tentions— a  place  which  I  take  to  be  a  very  dismal, 
useless,  and  unsatisfactory  terminus  for  many  pleasant 
thoughts,  kindly  fancies,  gentle  wishes,  merry  little 


206  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

quips  and  pranks,  harmless  jokes,  which  die,  as  it  were, 
the  moment  of  their  birth.  Poor  little  children  of  the 
brain !  He  was  a  dreary  theologian  who  huddled  you 
under  such  a  melancholy  cenotaph,  and  laid  you  in 
the  vaults  under  the  flagstones  of  Hades !  I  trust  that 
some  of  the  best  actions  we  have  all  of  us  committed 
in  our  lives  have  been  committed  in  fancy.  It  is  not 
all  wickedness  we  are  thinking,  que  diable  !  Some  of 
our  thoughts  are  bad  enough,  I  grant  you.  Many  a 
one  you  and  I  have  had  here  below.  Ah  mercy, 
what  a  monster!  what  crooked  horns!  what  leering 
eyes!  what  a  flaming  mouth!  what  cloven  feet,  and 
what  a  hideous  writhing  tail!  Oh,  let  us  fall  down 
on  our  knees,  repeat  our  most  potent  exorcisms,  and 
overcome  the  brute.  Spread  your  black  pinions — 
fly — fly  to  the  dusky  realms  of  Eblis,  and  bury  thy- 
self under  the  paving-stones  of  his  hall,  dark  genie ! 
But  all  thoughts  are  not  so.  No,  no.  There  are  the 
pure ;  there  are  the  kind ;  there  are  the  gentle.  There 
are  sweet  unspoken  thanks  before  a  fair  scene  of  na- 
ture :  at  a  sunsetting  below  a  glorious  sea ;  or  a  moon 
and  a  host  of  stars  shining  over  it :  at  a  bunch  of 
children  playing  in  the  street,  or  a  group  of  flowers 
by  the  hedge-side,  or  a  bird  singing  there.  At  a 
hundred  moments  or  occurrences  of  the  day  good 
thoughts  pass  through  the  mind,  let  us  trust,  which 
never  are  spoken ;  prayers  are  made  which  never  are 
said;  and  Te  Deum  is  sung  without  church,  clerk, 
choristers,  parson,  or  organ.  Why,  there's  my  ene- 
my, who  got  the  place  I  wanted ;  who  maligned  me 
to  the  woman  I  wanted  to  be  well  with ;  who  sup- 
planted me  in  the  good  graces  of  my  patron.    I  don't 


207 

say  any  thing  about  the  matter ;  but,  my  poor  old  en- 
emy, in  my  secret  mind  I  have  movements  of  as  ten- 
der charity  toward  you,  you  old  scoundrel,  as  ever  I 
had  when  we  were  boys  together  at  school.  You  ruf- 
fian !  do  you  fancy  I  forget  that  we  were  fond  of  each 
other  ?  We  are  still.  We  share  our  toffy ;  go  halves 
at  the  tuck-shop ;  do  each  other's  exercises ;  prompt 
each  other  with  the  word  in  construing  or  repetition ; 
and  tell  the  most  frightful  fibs  to  prevent  each  other 
from  being  found  out.  We  meet  each  other  in  pub- 
lic. Ware  a  fight !  Get  them  into  different  parts  of 
the  room!  Our  friends  hustle  round  us.  Capulet 
and  Montague  are  not  more  at  odds  than  the  houses 
of  Koundabout  and  Wrightabout,  let  us  say.  It  is, 
"  My  dear  Mrs.  Buffer,  do  kindly  put  yourself  in  the 
chair  between  those  two  men !"  Or,  "  My  dear 
Wrightabout,  will  you  take  that  charming  Lady 
Blancmange  down  to  supper?  She  adores  your 
poems ;  and  gave  five  shillings  for  your  autograph  at 
the  fancy  fair."  In  like  manner  the  peace-makers 
gather  round  Eoundabout  on  his  part;  he  is  carried 
to  a  distant  corner,  and  coaxed  out  of  the  way  of  the 
enemy  with  whom  he  is  at  feud. 

When  we  meet  in  the  square  at  Verona,  out  flash 
rapiers,  and  we  fall  to.  But  in  his  private  mind 
Tybalt  owns  that  Mercutio  has  a  rare  wit,  and  Mer- 
cutio  is  sure  that  his  adversary  is  a  gallant  gentleman. 
Look  at  the  amphitheatre  yonder.  You  do  not  sup- 
pose those  gladiators  who  fought  and  perished,  as 
hundreds  of  spectators  in  that  grim  Circus  held  thumbs 
down,  and  cried  "Kill,  kill!" — you  do  not  suppose 
the  combatants  of  necessity  hated  each  other?     Fo 


208  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

more  than  the  celebrated  trained  bands  of  literary 
sword-and-buckler  men  hate  the  adversaries  whom 
they  meet  in  the  arena.  They  engage  at  the  given 
signal;  feint  and  parry;  slash,  poke,  rip  each  other 
open,  dismember  limbs,  and  hew  off  noses ;  but  in  the 
way  of  business,  and,  I  trust,  with  mutual  private  es- 
teem. For  instance,  I  salute  the  warriors  of  the  Su- 
perfine Company  with  the  honors  due  among  war- 
riors. Here's  at  you,  Spartacus,  my  lad.  A  hit,  I  ac- 
knowledge. A  palpable  hit !  Ha !  how  do  you  like 
that  poke  in  the  eye  in  return  ?  When  the  trumpets 
sing  truce,  or  the  spectators  are  tired,  we  bow  to  the 
noble  company,  withdraw,  and  get  a  cool  glass  of  wine 
in  our  rendezvous  des  braves  gladiateurs. 

By  the  way,  I  saw  that  amphitheatre  of  Yerona 
under  the  strange  light  of  a  lurid  eclipse  some  years 
ago,  and  I  have  been  there  in  spirit  for  these  twenty 
lines  past,  under  a  vast  gusty  awning,  now  with  twen- 
ty thousand  fellow-citizens  looking  on  from  the  bench- 
es, now  in  the  circus  itself  a  grim  gladiator  with  sword 
and  net,  or  a  meek  martyr — was  I  ? — brought  out  to 
be  gobbled  up  by  the  lions?  or  a  huge  shaggjr,  tawny 
lion  myself,  on  whom  the  dogs  were  going  to  be  set? 
What  a  day  of  excitement  I  have  had,  to  be  sure ! 
But  I  must  get  away  from  Yerona,  or  who  knows 
how  much  farther  the  Eoundabout  Pegasus  may  car- 
ry me? 

We  were  saying,  my  Muse,  before  we  dropped  and 
perched  on  earth  for  a  couple  of  sentences,  that  our 
unsaid  words  were  in  some  limbo  or  other  as  real  as 
those  we  have  uttered ;  that  the  thoughts  which  have 
passed  through  our  brains  are  as  actual  as  any  to 


OX   TWO   ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS,   ETC.  209 

which  our  tongues  and  pens  have  given  currency. 
For  instance,  besides  what  is  here  hinted  at,  I  have 
thought  ever  so  much  more  about  Verona ;  about  an 
early  Christian  church  I  saw  there ;  about  a  great  dish 
of  rice  we  had  at  the  inn  ;  about  the  bugs  there ;  about 
ever  so  many  more  details  of  that  day's  journey  from 
Milan  to  Venice;  about  Lake  Garda,  which  lay  on 
the  way  from  Milan,  and  so  forth.  I  say  what  fine 
things  we  have  thought  of,  haven't  we,  all  of  us? 
Ah !  what  a  line  tragedy  that  was  I  thought  of,  and 
never  wrote !  On  the  day  of  the  dinner  of  the  Oys- 
termongers'  Company,  what  a  noble  speech  I  thought 
of  in  the  cab,  and  broke  down — I  don't  mean  the  cab, 
but  the  speech.  Ah!  if  you  could  but  read  some  of 
the  unwritten  Roundabout  Papers,  how  you  would  be 
amused !  Aha !  my  friend,  I  catch  you  saying,  "Well, 
then,  I  wish  this  was  unwritten,  with  all  my  heart." 
Very  good.  I  owe  you  one.  I  do  confess  a  hit,  a 
palpable  hit. 

One  day  in  the  past  month,  as  I  was  reclining  on 
the  bench  of  thought,  with  that  ocean  The  Times  news- 
paper spread  before  me,  the  ocean  cast  up  on  the  shore 
at  my  feet  two  famous  subjects  for  Roundabout  Pa- 
pers, and  I  picked  up  those  waifs,  and  treasured  them 
away  until  I  could  polish  them  and  bring  them  to 
market.  That  scheme  is  not  to  be  carried  out.  I 
can't  write  about  those  subjects.  And  though  I  can 
not  write  about  them,  I  may  surely  tell  what  are  the 
subjects  I  am  going  not  to  write  about. 

The  first  was  that  Northumberland  Street  encoun- 
ter which  all  the  papers  have  narrated.  Have  any 
novelists  of  our  days  a  scene  and  catastrophe  more 


210  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

strange  and  terrible  than  that  which  occurs  at  noon- 
day within  a  few  yards  of  the  greatest  thoroughfare 
in  Europe?  At  the  theatres  they  have  a  new  name 
for  their  melodramatic  pieces,  and  call  them  M  Sensa- 
tion Dramas."  What  a  sensation  drama  this  is! 
What  have  people  been  flocking  to  see  at  the  Adel- 
phi  Theatre  for  the  last  hundred  and  fifty  nights  ?  A 
woman  pitched  overboard  out  of  a  boat,  and  a  certain 
Miles  taking  a  tremendous  "  header,"  and  bringing 
her  to  shore?  Bagatelle!  What  is  this  compared 
to  the  real  life  drama,  of  which  a  midday  representa- 
tion takes  place  just  opposite  the  Adelphi  in  North- 
umberland Street?  The  brave  Dumas,  the  intrepid 
Ainsworth,  the  terrible  Eugene  Sue,  the  cold-shudder- 
inspiring  Woman  in  White,  the  astounding  author  of 
the  Mysteries  of  the  Court  of  London,  never  invented 
any  thing  more  tremendous  than  this.  It  might  have 
happened  to  you  and  me.  We  want  to  borrow  a  lit- 
tle money.  We  are  directed  to  an  agent.  We  pro- 
pose a  pecuniary  transaction  at  a  short  date.  He  goes 
into  the  next  room,  as  we  fancy,  to  get  the  bank-notes, 
and  returns  with  "two  very  pretty,  delicate  little 
ivory-handled  pistols,"  and  blows  a  portion  of  our 
heads  off.  After  this,  what  is  the  use  of  being  squeam- 
ish about  the  probabilities  and  possibilities  in  the 
writing  of  fiction  ?  Years  ago  I  remember  making 
merry  over  a  play  of  Dumas,  called  Kean,  in  which 
the  Coal-Hole  Tavern  was  represented  on  the  Thames, 
with  a  fleet  of  pirate-ships  moored  alongside.  Pirate 
ships?  Why  not?  What  a  cavern  of  terror  was  this 
in  Northumberland  Street,  with  its  splendid  furniture 
covered  with  dust,  its  empty  bottles,  in  the  midst  of 


ON  TWO  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS,  ETC.  211 

which  sits  a  grim  "agent,"  amusing  himself  by  firing 
pistols,  aiming  at  the  unconscious  mantle-piece,  or  at 
the  heads  of  his  customers ! 

After  this,  what  is  not  possible?  It  is  possible 
Hungerford  Market  is  mined,  and  will  explode  some 
day.  Mind  how  you  go  in  for  a  penny  ice  unawares. 
"  Pray  step  this  way,"  says  a  quiet  person  at  the  door. 
You  enter — into  a  back  room — a  quiet  room — rather 
a  dark  room.  "Pray  take  your  place  in  a  chair." 
And  she  goes  to  fetch  the  penny  ice.  Malheureux! 
The  chair  sinks  down  with  you — sinks,  and  sinks,  and 
sinks  —  a  large  wet  flannel  suddenly  envelops  your 
face  and  throttles  you.  Need  we  say  more?  After 
Northumberland  Street,  what  is  improbable  ?  Surely 
there  is  no  difficulty  in  crediting  Bluebeard.  I  with- 
draw my  last  month's  opinions  about  ogres.  Ogres  ? 
Why  not?  I  protest  I  have  seldom  contemplated 
any  thing  more  terribly  ludicrous  than  this  "  agent" 
in  the  dingy  splendor  of  his  den,  surrounded  by  dusty 
ormolu  and  piles  of  empty  bottles,  firing  pistols  for 
his  diversion  at  the  mantle-piece  until  his  clients  come 
in  !  Is  pistol  practice  so  common  in  Northumberland 
Street  that  it  passes  without  notice  in  the  lodging- 
houses  there  ? 

We  speak  anon  of  good  thoughts.  About  bad 
thoughts?  Is  there  some  Northumberland  Street 
chamber  in  your  heart  and  mine,  friend,  close  to  the 
every-day  street  of  life,  visited  by  daily  friends,  visit- 
ed by  people  on  business,  in  which  affairs  are  trans- 
acted, jokes  are  uttered,  wine  is  drunk ;  through  which 
people  come  and  go,  wives  and  children  pass,  and  in 
which  murder  sits  unseen  until  the  terrible  moment 


212  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

when  he  rises  up  and  kills  ?  A  farmer,  say,  has  a  gun 
over  the  mantle-piece  in  his  room  where  he  sits  at  his 
daily  meals  and  rest,  caressing  his  children,  joking 
with  his  friends,  smoking  his  pipe  in  his  calm.  One 
night  the  gun  is  taken  down,  the  farmer  goes  out,  and 
it  is  a  murderer  who  comes  back  and  puts  the  piece 
up  and  drinks  by  that  fireside.  Was  he  a  murderer 
yesterday  when  he  was  tossing  the  baby  on  his  knee, 
and  when  his  hands  were  playing  with  his  little  girl's 
yellow  hair  ?  Yesterday  there  was  no  blood  on  them 
at  all ;  they  were  shaken  by  honest  men ;  have  done 
many  a  kind  act  in  their  time  very  likely.  He  leans 
his  head  on  one  of  them,  the  wife  comes  in  with  her 
anxious  looks  of  welcome,  the  children  are  prattling 
as  they  did  yesterday  round  the  father's  knee  at  the 
fire,  and  Cain  is  sitting  by  the  embers,  and  Abel  lies 
dead  on  the  moor.  Think  of  the  gulf  between  now 
and  yesterday.  Oh,  yesterday !  Oh,  the  days  when 
those  two  loved  each  other,  and  said  their  prayers 
side  by  side !  He  goes  to  sleep,  perhaps,  and  dreams 
that  his  brother  is  alive.  Be  true,  oh  dream !  Let  him 
live  in  dreams,  and  wake  no  more.  Be  undone,  oh 
crime,  oh  crime !  But  the  sun  rises ;  and  the  officers 
of  conscience  come ;  and  yonder  lies  the  body  on  the 
moor.  I  happened  to  pass,  and  looked  at  the  North- 
umberland Street  house  the  other  day.  A  few  loiter- 
ers were  gazing  up  at  the  dingy  windows.  A  plain, 
ordinary  face  of  a  house  enough ;  and  in  a  chamber 
in  it  one  man  suddenly  rose  up,  pistol  in  hand,  to 
slaughter  another.  Have  you  ever  killed  any  one  in 
your  thoughts  ?  Has  your  heart  compassed  any  man's 
death  ?     In  your  mind,  have  you  ever  taken  a  brand 


213 

from  the  altar,  and  slain  your  brother?  How  many 
plain,  ordinary  faces  of  men  do  we  look  at,  unknow- 
ing of  murder  behind  those  eyes  ?  Lucky  for  you 
and  me,  brother,  that  we  have  good  thoughts  un- 
spoken. But  the  bad  ones  ?  I  tell  you  that  the  sight 
of  those  blank  windows  in  Northumberland  Street — 
through  which,  as  it  were,  my  mind  could  picture  the 
awful  tragedy  glimmering  behind — set  me  thinking, 
11  Mr.  Street  Preacher,  here  is  a  text  for  one  of  your 
pavement  sermons.  But  it  is  too  glum  and  serious. 
You  eschew  dark  thoughts,  and  desire  to  be  cheerful 
and  merry  in  the  main."  And,  such  being  the  case, 
you  see  we  must  have  no  Koundabout  Essay  on  this 
subject. 

Well,  I  had  another  arrow  in  my  quiver.  (So,  you 
know,  had  William  Tell  a  bolt  for  his  son,  the  apple 
of  his  eye,  and  a  shaft  for  Gessler  in  case  William 
came  to  any  trouble  with  the  first  poor  little  target.) 
And  this,  I  must  tell  you,  was  to  have  been  a  rare 
Eoundabout  performance — one  of  the  very  best  that 
has  ever  appeared  in  this  series.  It  was  to  have  con- 
tained all  the  deep  pathos  of  Addison,  the  logical  preci- 
sion of  Rabelais,  the  childlike  playfulness  of  Swift,  the 
manly  stoicism  of  Sterne,  the  metaphysical  depth  of 
Goldsmith,  the  blushing  modesty  of  Fielding,  the  epi- 
grammatic terseness  of  Walter  Scott,  the  uproarious 
humor  of  Sam  Richardson,  the  gay  simplicity  of  Sam 
Johnson — it  was  to  have  combined  all  these  qualities, 
with  some  excellencies  of  modern  writers  whom  I 
could  name ;  but  circumstances  have  occurred  which 
have  rendered  this  Roundabout  Essay  also  impossible. 

I  have  not  the  least  objection  to  tell  you  what  was 


214  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

to  have  been  the  subject  of  that  other  admirable 
Roundabout  Paper.  Gracious  powers!  the  Dean  of 
St.  Patrick's  never  had  a  better  theme.  The  paper 
was  to  have  been  on  the  Gorillas,  to  be  sure.  I  was 
going  to  imagine  myself  to  be  a  young  surgeon-appren- 
tice from  Charleston,  in  South  Carolina,  who  ran  away" 
to  Cuba  on  account  of  unhappy  family  circumstances, 
with  which  nobody  has  the  least  concern  ;  who  sailed 
thence  to  Africa  in  a  large,  roomy  schooner,  with  an 
extraordinary  vacant  space  between  decks.  I  was 
subject  to  dreadful  ill  treatment  from  the  first  mate  of 
the  ship,  who,  when  I  found  she  was  a  slaver,  alto- 
gether declined  to  put  me  on  shore.  I  was  chased — 
we  were  chased — by  three  British  frigates  and  a  sev- 
enty-four, which  we  engaged  and  captured,  but  were 
obliged  to  scuttle  and  sink,  as  we  could  sell  them  in 
no  African  port ;  and  I  never  shall  forget  the  look  of 
manly  resignation,  combined  with  considerable  dis- 
gust, of  the  British  admiral  as  he  walked  the  plank, 
after  cutting  off  his  pigtail,  which  he  handed  to  me, 
and  which  I  still  have  in  charge  for  his  family  at 
Boston,  Lincolnshire,  England. 

We  made  the  port  of  Bpoopoo,  at  the  confluence 
of  the  Bun  go  and  Sgglolo  Rivers  (which  you  may  see 
in  Swammerdahl's  map)  on  the  31st  of  April  of  last 
year.  Our  passage  had  been  so  extraordinarily  rapid, 
owing  to  the  continued  drunkenness  of  the  captain 
and  chief  officers,  by  which  I  was  obliged  to  work 
the  ship  and  take  her  in  command,  that  we  reached 
Bpoopoo  six  weeks  before  we  were  expected,  and  five 
before  the  cofYres  from  the  interior  and  from  the  great 
slave  depot  at  Zbabblo  were  expected.     Their  delay 


ON   TWO   ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS,  ETC.  215 

caused  us  not  a  little  discomfort,  because,  though  we 
had  taken  the  six  English  ships,  we  knew  that  Sir 
Byam  Martin's  iron-cased  squadron,  with  the  Warrior, 
the  Impregnable,  the  Sanclioniathon,  and  the  Berosus. 
were  cruising  in  the  neighborhood,  and  might  prove 
too  much  for  us. 

It  not  only  became  necessary  to  quit  Bpoopoo  be- 
fore the  arrival  of  the  British  fleet  or  the  rainy  season, 
but  to  get  our  people  on  board  as  soon  as  might  be. 
While  the  chief  mate,  with  a  detachment  of  seamen, 
hurried  forward  to  the  Pgogo  Lake,  where  we  expect- 
ed a  considerable  part  of  our  cargo,  the  second  mate, 
with  six  men,  four  chiefs.  King  Fbumbo,  an  Obi  man, 
and  myself,  went  N.W.  by  W.  toward  King  Mtoby's 
town,  where  we  knew  many  hundreds  of  our  between- 
deck  passengers  were  to  be  got  together.  We  went 
down  the  Pdodo  Kiver,  shooting  snipes,  ostriches,  and 
rhinoceroses  in  plenty,  and  I  think  a  few  elephants, 
until,  by  the  advice  of  a  guide,  who  I  now  believe  was 
treacherous,  we  were  induced  to  leave  the  Pdodo,  and 
march  N.E.  by  N.N.  Here  Lieutenant  Larkins,  who 
had  persisted  in  drinking  rum  from  morning  to  night, 
and  thrashing  me  in  his  sober  moments  during  the 
whole  journey,  died,  and  I  have  too  good  reason  to 
know  was  eaten  with  much  relish  by  the  natives.  At 
Mgoo,  where  there  are  barracoons  and  a  depot  for  our 
cargo,  we  had  no  news  of  our  expected  freight;  accord- 
ingly, as  time  pressed  exceedingly,  parties  were  dis- 
patched in  advance  toward  the  great  Washaboo  Lake, 
by  which  the  caravans  usually  come  toward  the  coast. 
Here  we  found  no  caravan,  but  only  four  negroes 
down  with  ague,  whom  T  treated,  I  am  bound  to  say, 


216  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

unsuccessfully,  while  we  waited  for  our  friends.  We 
used  to  take  watch  and  watch  in  front  of  the  place, 
both  to  guard  ourselves  from  attack,  and  get  early 
news  of  the  approaching  caravan. 

At  last,  on  the  23d  of  September,  as  I  was  in  ad- 
vance with  Charles  Eogers,  second  mate,  and  two  na- 
tives with  bows  and  arrows,  we  were  crossing  a  great 
plain  skirted  by  a  forest,  when  we  saw  emerging  from 
a  ravine  what  I  took  to  be  three  negroes — a  very  tall 
one,  one  of  a  moderate  size,  and  one  quite  little. 

Our  native  guides  shrieked  out  some  words  in  their 
language,  of  which  Charles  Eogers  knew  something. 
I  thought  it  was  the  advance  of  the  negroes  whom  we 
expected.  "No,"  said  Eogers  (who  swore  dreadfully 
in  conversation),  "it  is  the  Gorillas!"  And  he  fired 
both  barrels. of  his  gun,  bringing  down  the  little  one 
first,  and  the  female  afterward. 

The  male,  who  was  untouched,  gave  a  howl  that 
you  might  hear  a  league  off;  advanced  toward  us  as 
if  he  would  attack  us,  and  turned  and  ran  away  with 
inconceivable  celerity  toward  the  wood. 

We  went  up  toward  the  fallen  brutes.  The  little 
one  by  the  female  appeared  to  be  about  two  years  old. 
It  lay  bleating  and  moaning  on  the  ground,  stretching 
out  its  little  hands,  with  movements  and  looks  so 
strangely  resembling  human,  that  my  heart  sickened 
with  pity.  The  female,  who  had  been  shot  through 
both  legs,  could  not  move.  She  howkd  most  hideous- 
ly when  I  approached  the  little  one. 

"  We  must  be  off,"  said  Eogers,  "  or  the  whole  Go- 
rilla race  may  be  down  upon  us.  The  little  one  is 
only  shot  in  the  leg,  I  said.  I'll  bind  the  limb  up, 
and  we  will  carry  the  beast  with  us  on  board." 


217 

The  poor  little  wretch  held  up  its  leg  to  show  it 
was  wounded,  and  looked  to  me  with  appealing  eyes. 
It  lay  quite  still  while  I  looked  for  and  found  the  bul- 
let, and,  tearing  off  a  piece  of  my  shirt,  bandaged  up 
the  wound.  I  was  so  occupied  in  this  business  that  I 
hardly  heard  Eogers  cry,  "  Kun !  run !"  and  when  I 
looked  up — 

When  I  looked  up,  with  a  roar  the  most  horrible  I 
ever  heard — a  roar?  ten  thousand  roars — a  whirling 
army  of  dark  beings  rushed  by  me.  Eogers,  who  had 
bullied  me  so  frightfully  during  the  voyage,  and  who 
had  encouraged  my  fatal  passion  for  play,  so  that  I 
own  I  owed  him  1500  dollars,  was  overtaken,  felled, 
brained,  and  torn  into  ten  thousand  pieces ;  and  I  dare 
say  the  same  fate  would  have  fallen  on  me,  but  that 
the  little  Gorilla,  whose  wound  I  had  dressed,  flung 
its  arms  round  my  neck  (their  arms,  you  know,  are 
much  longer  than  ours).  And  when  an  immense  gray 
Gorilla,  with  hardly  any  teeth,  brandishing  the  trunk 
of  a  gollybosh-tree  about  sixteen  feet  long,  came  up 
to  me  roaring,  the  little  one  squeaked  out  something 
plaintive,  which  of  course  I  could  not  understand ;  on 
which  suddenly  the  monster  flung  down  his  tree, 
squatted  down  on  his  huge  hams  by  the  side  of  the 
little  patient,  and  began  to  bellow  and  weep. 

And  now,  do  you  see  whom  I  had  rescued  ?  I  had 
rescued  the  young  Prince  of  the  Gorillas,  who  was  out 
walking  with  his  nurse  and  footman.  The  footman 
had  run  off  to  alarm  his  master,  and  certainly  I  never 
saw  a  footman  run  quicker.  The  whole  army  of 
Gorillas  rushed  forward  to  rescue  their  prince  and 
punish  his  enemies.     If  the  King  Gorilla's  emotion 

K    * 


218  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

was  great,  fancy  what  the  queen's  must  have  been 
when  she  came  up !  She  arrived  on  a  litter,  neatly 
enough  made  with  wattled  branches,  on  which  she 
lay,  with  her  youngest  child,  a  prince  of  three  weeks 
old. 

My  little  protege  with  the  wounded  leg  still  per- 
sisted in  hugging  me  with  its  arms  (I  think  I  men- 
tioned that  they  are  longer  than  those  of  men  in  gen- 
eral), and  as  the  poor  little  brute  was  immensely 
heavy,  and  the  Gorillas  go  at  a  prodigious  pace,  a  lit- 
ter was  made  for  us  likewise,  and  my  thirst  much  re- 
freshed by  a  footman  (the  same  domestic  who  had 
given  the  alarm)  running  hand  over  hand  up  a  cocoa- 
nut-tree,  tearing  the  rinds  off,  breaking  the  shell  on 
his  head,  and  handing  me  the  fresh  milk  in  its  cup. 
My  little  patient  partook  of  a  little,  stretching  out  its 
dear  little  unwounded  foot,  with  which,  or  with  its 
hand,  a  Gorilla  can  help  itself  indiscriminately.  Be- 
lays of  large  Gorillas  relieved  each  other  at  the  litters 
at  intervals  of  twenty  minutes,  as  I  calculated  by  my 
watch — one  of  Jones  and  Bates's,  of  Boston,  Mass. — 
though  I  have  been  unable  to  this  day  to  ascertain 
how  these  animals  calculate  time  with  such  surprising 
accuracy.     We  slept  for  that  night  under — 

And  now  you  see  we  arrive  at  really  the  most  in- 
teresting part  of  my  travels  in  the  country  which  I 
intended  to  visit,  viz.,  the  manners  and  habits  of  the 
Gorillas  dies  eux.  I  give  the  heads  of  this  narrative 
only,  the  full  account  being  suppressed  for  a  reason 
which  shall  presently  be  given.  The  heads,  then,  of 
the  chapters,  are  briefly  as  follows : 

The  author's  arrival  in  the  Gorilla  country.     Its  geo- 


ON   TWO   ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS,  ETC.  219 

graphical  position.  Lodgings  assigned  to  him  up  a  gum- 
tree.  Constant  attachment  of  the  little  prince.  His  royal 
highnesses  gratitude.  Anecdotes  of  his  wit,  playfulness, 
and  extraordinary  precocity.  Am  offered  a  portion  of 
poor  Larkins  for  my  supper,  but  decline  with  horror. 
Footman  brings  me  a  young  crocodile :  fishy  but  very 
palatable.  Old  crocodiles  too  tough:  ditto  rhinoceros. 
Visit  the  queen  mother — an  enormous  old  Gorilla,  quite 
white.  Prescribe  for  her  majesty.  Meeting  of  Gorillas 
at  ivhat  appears  a  parliament  among  them;  presided  over 
by  old  Gorilla  in  cocoa-nut-fibre  wig.  Their  sports. 
Their  customs.  A  privileged  class  among  them.  Ex- 
traordinary likeness  of  Gorillas  to  people  at  home,  both 
at  Charleston,  &  C,  my  native  place,  and  London,  En- 
gland, which  I  have  visited.  Flat-nosed  Gorillas  and 
blue-nosed  Gorillas  ;  their  hatred,  and  wars  between  them. 
In  a  part  of  the  country  (its  geographical  position  de- 
scribed) I  see  several  negroes  under  Gorilla  domination. 
Well  treated  by  their  masters.  Frog -eating  Gorillas 
across  the  Salt  Lake.  Bull-headed  Gorillas — their  mu- 
tual hostility.  Green  Island  Gorillas.  More  quarrel- 
some than  the  Bull-heads,  and  howl  much  louder.  I  am 
called  to  attend  one  of  the  princesses.  Evident  partiality 
of  H.  R.  H.  for  me.  Jealousy  and  rage  of  large  red- 
headed Gorilla.     How  shall  I  escape  ! 

Ay,  how  indeed?  Do  you  wish  to  know?  Is 
your  curiosity  excited  ?  Well,  I  do  know  how  I  es- 
caped. I  could  tell  the  most  extraordinary  adven- 
tures that  happened  to  me.  I  could  show  you  re- 
semblances to  people  at  home,  that  would  make  them 
blue  with  rage  and  you  crack  your  sides  with  laugh- 
ter  And  what  is  the  reason  I  can  not  write 


220  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

this  paper,  having  all  the  facts  before  me  ?  The  rea- 
son is,  that,  walking  down  St.  James's  Street  yester- 
day, I  met  a  friend  who  says  to  me,  "  Koundabout, 
my  boy,  have  you  seen  your  picture  ?  Here  it  is !" 
And  he  pulls  out  a  portrait,  executed  in  photography, 
of  your  humble  servant  as  an  immense  and  most  un- 
pleasant-featured baboon,  with  long  hairy  hands,  and 
called  by  the  waggish  artist  aA  Literary  Gorilla." 
Oh  horror !  And  now  you  see  why  I  can't  play  off 
this  joke  myself,  and  moralize  on  the  fable,  as  it  has 
been  narrated  already  de  me. 


A  MISSISSIPPI   BUBBLE. 


221 


A  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE. 


This  initial  group  of  dusky  children  of  the  captiv- 
ity is  copied  out  of  a  little  sketch-book  which  I  car- 
ried in  many  a  roundabout  journey,  and  will  point  a 
moral  or  adorn  a  T  as  well  as  any  other  sketch  in  the 
volume.     Yonder  drawing  was  made  in  a  country 


222  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

where  there  was  such  hospitality,  friendship,  kindness 
shown  to  the  humble  designer,  that  his  eyes  do  not 
care  to  look  out  for  faults,  or  his  pen  to  note  them. 
How  they  sang ;  how  they  laughed  and  grinned ;  how 
they  scraped,  bowed,  and  complimented  you  and  each 
other,  those  negroes  of  the  cities  of  the  southern  parts 
of  the  then  United  States  !  My  business  kept  me  in 
the  towns ;  I  was  in  but  one  negro  plantation-village, 
and  there  were  only  women  and  little  children,  the 
men  being  out  afield.  But  there  was  plenty  of  cheer- 
fulness in  the  huts,  under  the  great  trees — I  speak  of 
what  I  saw — and  amid  the  dusky  bondsmen  of  the 
cities.  I  witnessed  a  curious  gayety ;  heard  among 
the  black  folk  endless  singing,  shouting,  and  laughter; 
and  saw  on  holydays  black  gentlemen  and  ladies  ar- 
rayed in  such  splendor  and  comfort  as  freeborn  work- 
men in  our  towns  seldom  exhibit.  What  a  grin  and 
bow  that  dark  gentleman  performed,  who  was  the 
porter  at  the  colonel's,  when  he  said, "  You  write  your 
name,  mas'r,  else  I  will  forgot."  I  am  not  going  into 
the  slavery  question ;  I  am  not  an  advocate  for  "  the 
institution,"  as  I  know,  madam,  by  that  angry  toss  of 
your  head,  you  are  about  to  declare  me  to  be.  For 
domestic  purposes,  my  dear  lady,  it  seemed  to  me 
about  the  dearest  institution  that  can  be  devised.  In 
a  house  in  a  Southern  city  you  will  find  fifteen  ne- 
groes doing  the  work  which  John,  the  cook,  the  house- 
maid, and  the  help,  do  perfectly  in  your  own  comfort- 
able London  house.  And  these  fifteen  negroes  are 
the  pick  of  a  family  of  some  eighty  or  ninety.  Twen- 
ty are  too  sick  or  too  old  for  work,  let  us  say ;  twenty 
too  clumsy ;  twenty  are  too  young,  and  have  to  be 


A  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE.  223 

nursed  and  watched  by  ten  more.*  And  master  has 
to  maintain  the  immense  crew  to  do  the  work  of  half 
a  dozen  willing  hands.  No,  no ;  let  Mitchell,  the  ex- 
ile from  poor  dear  enslaved  Ireland,  wish  for  a  gang 
of  "fat  niggers;"  I  would  as  soon  you  should  make 
me  a  present  of  a  score  of  Bengal  elephants,  when  I 
need  but  a  single  stout  horse  to  pull  my  brougham. 

How  hospitable  they  were,  those  Southern  men ! 
In  the  North  itself  the  welcome  was  not  kinder,  as  I, 
who  have  eaten  Northern  and  Southern  salt,  can  tes- 
tify. As  for  New  Orleans,  in  spring-time — -just  when 
the  orchards  were  flushing  over  with  peach-blossoms, 
and  the  sweet  herbs  came  to  flavor  the  juleps  —  it 
seemed  to  me  the  city  of  the  world  where  you  can  eat 
and  drink  the  most  and  suffer  the  least.  At  Bordeaux 
itself,  claret  is  not  better  to  drink  than  at  New  Or- 
leans. It  was  all  good — believe  an  expert  Eobert — 
from  the  half-dollar  Medoc  of  the  public  hotel  table 
to  the  private  gentleman's  choicest  wine.  Claret  is, 
somehow,  good  in  that  gifted  place  at  dinner,  at  sup- 
per, and  at  breakfast  in  the  morning.  It  is  good — it 
is  superabundant — and  there  is  nothing  to  pay.  Find 
me  speaking  ill  of  such  a  country !  When  I  do,  pone 
me  pigris  campis ;  smother  me  in  a  desert,  or  let  Mis- 
sissippi or  Garonne  drown  me !  At  that  comfortable 
tavern  on  Pontchartrain  we  had  a  bouillabaisse,  than 
which  a  better  was  never  eaten  at  Marseilles ;  and  not 
the  least  headache  in  the  morning,  I  give  you  my 

*  This  was  an  account  given  by  a  gentleman  at  Richmond  of  his 
establishment.  Six  European  servants  would  have  kept  his  house 
and  stables  well.  "His  farm,"  he  said,  "  barely  sufficed  to  maintain 
the  negroes  residing  on  it." 


224  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

word ;  on  the  contrary,  you  only  wake  with  a  sweet 
refreshing  thirst  for  claret  and  water.  They  say  there 
is  fever  there  in  the  autumn,  but  not  in  the  spring- 
time, when  the  peach-blossoms  blush  over  the  orchards, 
and  the  sweet  herbs  come  to  flavor  the  juleps. 

I  was  bound  from  New  Orleans  to  Saint  Louis; 
and  our  walk  was  constantly  on  the  Levee,  whence 
we  could  see  a  hundred  of  those  huge  white  Missis- 
sippi steamers  at  their  moorings  in  the  river:  "Look," 
said  my  friend  Lochlomond  to  me,  as  we  stood  one 
day  on  the  quay,  "look  at  that  post!  Look  at  that 
coffee-house  behind  it !  Sir,  last  year  a  steamer  blew 
up  in  the  river  yonder,  just  where  you  see  those  men 
pulling  off  in  the  boat.  By  that  post  where  you  are 
standing  a  mule  was  cut  in  two  by  a  fragment  of  the 
burst  machinery,  and  a  bit  Of  the  chimney  stove  in 
that  first-floor  window  of  the  coffee-house,  killing  a 
negro  who  was  cleaning  knives  in  the  top-room !"  I 
looked  at  the  post,  at  the  coffee-house  window,  at  the 
steamer  in  which  I  was  going  to  embark,  at  my  friend, 
with  a  pleasing  interest  not  divested  of  melancholy. 
Yesterday  it  was  the  donkey,  thinks  I,  who  was  cut 
in  two ;  it  may  be  eras  mihi.  Why,  in  the  same  little 
sketch-book,  there  is  a  drawing  of  an  Alabama  Eiver 
steamer  which  blew  up  on  the  very  next  voyage  after 
that  in  which  your  humble  servant  was  on  board! 
Had  I  but  waited  another  week,  I  might  have  .... 
These  incidents  give  a  queer  zest  to  the  voyage  down 
the  life  stream  in  America.  When  our  huge,  tall, 
white,  pasteboard  castle  of  a  steamer  began  to  work 
up  stream,  every  limb  in  her  creaked,  and  groaned, 
and  quivered,  so  that  you  might  fancy  she  would 


A  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE.  225 

burst  right  off.  Would  she  hold  together,  or  would 
she  split  into  ten  million  of  shivers  ?  Oh  my  home 
and  children!  Would  your  humble  servant's  body 
be  cut  in  two  across  yonder  chain  on  the  Levee,  or  be 
precipitated  into  yonder  first  floor,  so  as  to  damage  the 
chest  of  a  black  man  cleaning  boots  at  the  window  ? 
The  black  man  is  safe  for  me,  thank  goodness.  But 
you  see  the  little  accident  might  have  happened.  It 
has  happened ;  and  if  to  a  mule,  why  not  to  a  more 
docile  animal  ?  On  our  journey  up  the  Mississippi, 
I  give  you  my  honor  we  were  on  fire  three  times,  and 
burned  our  cook-room  down.  The  deck  at  night  was 
a  great  fire- work:  the  chimney  spouted  myriads  of 
stars,  which  fell  blackening  on  our  garments,  spark- 
ling on  to  the  deck,  or  gleaming  into  the  mighty 
stream  through  which  we  labored — the  mighty  yel- 
low stream  with  all  its  snags. 

How  I  kept  up  my  courage  through  these  dangers 
shall  now  be  narrated.  The  excellent  landlord  of  the 
Saint  Charles  Hotel,  when  I  was  going  away,  begged 
me  to  accept  two  bottles  of  the  very  finest  Cognac, 
with  his  compliments ;  and  I  found  them  in  my  state- 
room with  my  luggage.  Lochlomond  came  to  see  me 
off,  and  as  he  squeezed  my  hand  at  parting,  "Bound- 
about,"  says  he,  "  the  wine  mayn't  be  very  good  on 
board,  so  I  have  brought  a  dozen-case  of  the  Mddoc 
which  you  liked ;"  and  we  grasped  together  the  hands 
of  friendship  and  farewell.  Whose  boat  is  this  pull- 
ing up  to  the  ship  ?  It  is  our  friend  Glenlivat,  who 
gave  us  the  dinner  on  Lake  Pontchartrain.  "  Kound- 
about,"  says  he,  "  we  have  tried  to  do  what  we  could 
for  you,  my  boy,  and  it  has  been  done  de  bon  cceur" 
K2 


226  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

(I  detect  a  kind  tremulousness  in  the  good  fellow's 
voice  as  he  speaks).  "  I  say — hem ! — the  a — the  wine 
isn't  too  good  on  board,  so  I've  brought  you  a  dozen 
of  Medoc  for  your  voyage,  you  know.  And  God 
bless  you;  and  when  I  come  to  London  in  May  I 
shall  come  and  see  you.  Hallo !  here*s  Johnson  come 
to  see  you  off  too !" 

As  I  am  a  miserable  sinner,  when  Johnson  grasped 
my  hand,  he  said,  "  Mr.  Eoundabout,  you  can't  be  sure 
of  the  wine  on  board  these  steamers,  so  I  thought  I 
would  bring  you  a  little  case  of  that  light  claret  which 
you  liked  at  my  house.  Et  de  trois !  No  wonder  I 
could  face  the  Mississippi  with  so  much  courage  sup- 
plied to  me!  Where  are  you,  honest  friends,  who 
gave  me  of  your  kindness  and  your  cheer  ?  May  1 
be  considerably  boiled,  blown  up,  and  snagged,  if  I 
speak  hard  words  of  you.  May  claret  turn  sour  ere 
I  do! 

Mounting  the  stream,  it  chanced  that  we  had  very 
few  passengers.  How  far  is  the  famous  city  of  Mem- 
phis from  New  Orleans?  I  do  not  mean  the  Egyptian 
Memphis,  but  the  American  Memphis,  from  which  to 
the  American  Cairo  we  slowly  toiled  up  the  river — to 
the  American  Cairo  at  the  confluence  of  the  Ohio  and 
Mississippi  Eivers.  And  at  Cairo  we  parted  com- 
pany from  the  boat,  and  from  some  famous  and  gifted 
fellow  -  passengers  who  joined  us  at  Memphis,  and 
whose  pictures  we  had  seen  in  many  cities  of  the 
South.  I  do  not  give  the  names  of  these  remarkable 
people,  unless,  by  some  wondrous  chance,  in  invent- 
ing a  name  I  should  light  upon  that  real  one  which 
some  of  them  bore ;  but,  if  you  please,  I  will  say  that 


A  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE.  227 

our  fellow-passengers  whom  we  took  in  at  Memphis 
were  no  less  personages  than  the  Vermont  Giant  and 
the  famous  Bearded  Lady  of  Kentucky  and  her  son. 
Their  pictures  I  had  seen  in  many  cities  through  which 
I  traveled  with  my  own  little  performance.  I  think 
the  Vermont  Giant  was  a  trifle  taller  in  his  pictures 
than  he  was  in  life  (being  represented  in  the  former  as 
at  least  some  two  stories  high);  but  the  lady's  pro- 
digious beard  received  no  more  than  justice  at  the 
hands  of  the  painter ;  that  portion  of  it  which  I  saw 
being  really  most  black,  rich,  and  curly — I  say  the 
portion  of  beard,  for  this  modest  or  prudent  woman 
kept  I  don't  know  how  much  of  the  beard  covered  up 
with  a  red  handkerchief,  from  which  I  suppose  it  only 
emerged  when  she  went  to  bed,  or  when  she  exhibited 
it  professionally. 

The  Giant,  I  must  think,  was  an  overrated  giant. 
I  have  known  gentlemen,  not  in  the  profession,  better 
made,  and  I  should  say  taller,  than  the  Vermont  gen- 
tleman. A  strange  feeling  I  used  to  have  at  meals, 
when,  on  looking  round  our  little  society,  I  saw  the 
Giant,  the  Bearded  Lady  of  Kentucky,  the  little 
Bearded  Boy  of  three  years  old,  the  Captain  (this  I 
think;  but  at  this  distance  of  time  I  would  not  like  to 
make  the  statement  on  affidavit),  and  the  three  other 
passengers,  all  with  their  knives  in  their  mouths  mak- 
ing play  at  the  dinner — a  strange  feeling  I  say  it  was, 
and  as  though  I  was  in  a  castle  of  ogres.  But,  after 
all,  why  so  squeamish  ?  A  few  scores  of  years  back, 
the  finest  gentlemen  and  ladies  of  Europe  did  the  like. 
Belinda  ate  with  her  knife ;  and  Saccharissa  had  only 
that  weapon,  or  a  two-pronged  fork,  or  a  spoon,  for 


228  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

her  pease.  Have  you  ever  looked  at  Gilray's  print 
of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  a  languid  voluptuary,  retir- 
ing after  his  meal,  and  noted  the  toothpick  which  he 
uses  ?  .  .  .  .  You  are  right,  madam,  I  own  that 
the  subject  is  revolting  and  terrible.  I  will  not  pur- 
sue it.  Only — allow  that  a  gentleman,  in  a  shaky 
steam-boat,  on  a  dangerous  river,  in  a  far-off  country, 
which  caught  fire  three  times  during  the  voyage — 
(of  course  I  mean  the  steam-boat,  not  the  country), 
seeing  a  giant,  a  voracious  supercargo,  a  bearded  lady, 
and  a  little  boy,  not  three  years  of  age,  with  a  chin  al- 
ready quite  black  and  curly,  all  plying  their  victuals 
down  their  throats  with  their  knives — allow,  madam, 
that  in  such  a  company  a  man  had  a  right  to  feel  a 
little  nervous.  I  don't  know  whether  you  have  ever 
remarked  the  Indian  jugglers  swallowing  their  knives, 
or  seen,  as  I  have,  a  whole  table  of  people  performing 
the  same  trick,  but  if  you  look  at  their  eyes  when 
they  do  it,  I  assure  you  there  is  a  roll  in  them  which 
is  dreadful. 

Apart  from  this  usage  which  they  practice  in  com- 
mon with  many  thousand  most  estimable  citizens,  the 
Vermont  gentleman,  and  the  Kentucky  whiskered 
lady — or  did  I  say  the  reverse  ? — whichever  you  like, 
my  dear  sir — were  quite  quiet,  modest,  unassuming 
people.  She  sat  working  with  her  needle,  if  I  remem- 
ber right.  He,  I  suppose,  slept  in  the  great  cabin, 
which  was  seventy  feet  long  at  the  least;  nor,  I  am 
bound  to  say,  did  I  hear  in  the  night  any  snores  or 
roars,  such  as  you  would  fancy  ought  to  accompany 
the  sleep  of  ogres.  Nay,  this  giant  had  quite  a  small 
appetite  (unless,  to  be. sure,  he  went  forward  and  ate  a 


A  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE.  229 

sheep  or  two  in  private  with  his  horrid  knife — oh,  the 
dreadful  thought ! — but  in  public,  I  say,  he  had  quite 
a  delicate  appetite),  and  was  also  a  tee-totaller.  I  don't 
remember  to  have  heard  the  lady's  voice,  though  I 
might,  not  unnaturally,  have  been  curious  to  hear  it. 
Was  her  voice  a  deep,  rich,  magnificent  bass,  or  was 
it  soft,  fluty,  and  mild?  I  shall  never  know  now. 
Even  if  she  comes  to  this  country  I  shall  never  go 
and  see  her.     I  have  seen  her,  and  for  nothing. 

You  would  have  fancied  that,  as,  after  all,  we  were 
only  some  half  dozen  on  board,  she  might  have  dis- 
pensed with  her  red  handkerchief,  and  talked,  and 
eaten  her  dinner  in  comfort ;  but  in  covering  her  chin 
there  was  a  kind  of  modesty.  That  beard  was  her 
profession ;  that  beard  brought  the  public  to  see  her ; 
out  of  her  business  she  wished  to  put  that  beard  aside, 
as  it  were — as  a  barrister  would  wish  to  put  oif  his 
wig.  I  know  some  who  carry  theirs  into  private  life, 
and  who  mistake  you  and  me  for  jury-boxes  when 
they  address  us ;  but  these  are  not  your  modest  bar- 
risters, not  your  true  gentlemen. 

Well,  I  own  I  respected  the  lady  for  the  modesty 
with  which,  her  public  business  over,  she  retired  into 
private  life.  She  respected  her  life  and  her  beard. 
That  beard  having  done  its  day's  work,  she  puts  it 
away  in  a  handkerchief,  and  becomes,  as  far  as  in  her 
lies,  a  private  ordinary  person.  All  public  men  and 
women  of  good  sense,  I  should  think,  have  this  mod- 
esty. When,  for  instance,  in  my  small  way,  poor  Mrs. 
Brown  comes  simpering  up  to  me,  with  her  album 
in  one  hand,  a  pen  in  the  other,  and  says,  "  Ho,  ho, 
dear  Mr.  Roundabout,  write  us  one  of  your  amusing, 


230  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

etc.,  etc.,"  my  beard  drops  behind  my  handkerchief 
instantly.  Why  am  I  to  wag  my  chim  and  grin  for 
Mrs.  Brown's  good  pleasure?  My  dear  madam,  I 
have  been  making  faces  all  day.  It  is  my  profession. 
I  do  my  comic  business  with  the  greatest  pains,  seri- 
ousness, and  trouble,  and  with  it  make,  I  hope,  a  not 
dishonest  livelihood.  If  you  ask  Monsieur  Blondin  to 
tea,  you  don't  have  a  rope  stretched  from  your  garret 
window  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  square,  and  request 
Monsieur  to  take  his  tea  out  on  the  centre  of  the  rope? 
I  lay  my  hand  on  this  waistcoat,  and  declare  that  not 
once  in  the  course  of  our  voyage  together  did  I  allow 
the  Kentucky  Giant  to  suppose  I  was  speculating  on 
his  stature,  or  the  Bearded  Lady  to  surmise  that  I 
wished  to  peep  under  the  handkerchief  which  muffled 
the  lower  part  of  her  face. 

And  the  more  fool  you,  says  some  cynic.  (Faugh ! 
those  cynics,  I  hate  'em !)  Don't  you  know,  sir,  that 
a  man  of  genius  is  pleased  to  have  his  genius  recog- 
nized; that  a  beauty  likes  to  be  admired;  that  an 
actor  likes  to  be  applauded ;  that  stout  old  Wellington 
himself  was  pleased,  and  smiled  when  the  people 
cheered  him  as  he  passed?  Suppose  you  had  paid 
some  respectful  elegant  compliment  to  that  lady? 
Suppose  you  had  asked  that  giant  if  for  once  he  would 
take  any  thing  at  the  liquor-bar?  you  might  have 
learned  a  great  deal  of  curious  knowledge  regarding 
giants  and  bearded  ladies,  about  whom  you  evidently 
now  know  very  little.  There  was  that  little  boy  of 
three  years'  old,  with  a  fine  beard  already,  and  his  little 
legs  and  arms,  as  seen  out  of  his  little  frock,  covered 
with  a  dark  down.     What  a  queer  little  capering 


A   MISSISSIPPI   BUBBLE.  231 

satyr!  He  was  quite  good-natured,  childish,  rather 
solemn.  He  had  a  little  Norval  dress,  I  remember — 
the  drollest  little  Norval. 

I  have  said  the  B.  L.  had  another  child.  Now  this 
was  a  little  girl  of  some  six  years  old,  as  fair  and  as 
smooth  of  skin,  dear  madam,  as  your  own  darling 
cherubs.  She  wandered  about  the  great  cabin  quite 
melancholy.  No  one  seemed  to  care  for  her.  All  the 
family  affections  were  centred  on  Master  Esau  yonder. 
His  little  beard  was  beginning  to  be  a  little  fortune 
already,  whereas  Miss  Eosalba  was  of  no  good  to  the 
family.  No  one  would  pay  a  cent  to  see  her  little  fair 
face.  No  wonder  the  poor  little  maid  was  melancholy. 
As  I  looked  at  her,  I  seemed  to  walk  more  and  more 
in  a  fairy  tale,  and  more  and  more  in  a  cavern  of 
ogres.  Was  this  a  little  fondling  whom  they  had 
picked  up  in  some  forest,  where  lie  the  picked  bones 
of  the  queen,  her  tender  mother,  and  the  tough  old 
defunct  monarch,  her  father?  No.  Doubtless  they 
were  quite  good-natured  people,  these.  I  don't  be- 
lieve they,  were  unkind  to  the  little  girl  without  the 
mustaches.  It  may  have  been  only  my  fancy  that 
she  repined  because  she  had  a  cheek  no  more  bearded 
than  a  rose's. 

"Would  you  wish  your  own  daughter,  madam,  to 
have  a  smooth  cheek,  a  modest  air,  and  a  gentle  femi- 
nine behavior,  or  to  be — I  won't  say  a  whiskered  prod- 
igy, like  this  Bearded  Lady  of  Kentucky— but  a  mas- 
culine wonder,  a  virago,  a  female  personage  of  more 
than  female  strength,  courage,  wisdom  ?  Some  au- 
thors, who  shall  be  nameless,  are,  I  know,  accused  of 
depicting  the   most  feeble,  brainless,  namby-pamby 


232  ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS. 

heroines,  forever  whimpering  tears  and  prattling  com- 
monplaces. You  would  have  the  heroine  of  your  nov- 
el so  beautiful  that  she  should  charm  the  captain  (or 
hero,  whoever  he  may  be)  with  her  appearance ;  sur- 
prise and  confound  the  bishop  with  her  learning ;  out- 
ride the  squire  and  get  the  brush,  and,  when  he  fell 
from  his  horse,  whip  out  a  lancet  and  bleed  him ;  res- 
cue from  fever  and  death  the  poor  cottager's  family 
whom  the  doctor  had  given  up ;  make  21  at  the  butts 
with  the  rifle,  when  the  poor  captain  only  scored  18 ; 
give  him  twenty  in  fifty  at  billiards,  and  beat  him ; 
and  draw  tears  from  the  professional  Italian  people  by 
her  exquisite  performance  (of  voice  and  violoncello) 
in  the  evening — I  say,  if  a  novelist  would  be  popular 
with  ladies — the  great  novel  readers  of  the  world — 
this  is  the  sort  of  heroine  who  would  carry  him 
through  half  a  dozen  editions.  Suppose  I  had  asked 
that  Bearded  Lady  to  sing  ?  Confess,  now,  miss,  you 
would  not  have  been  displeased  if  I  had  told  you  that 
she  had  a  voice  like  Lablache,  only  ever  so  much 
lower. 

My  dear,  you  would  like  to  be  a  heroine  ?  You 
would  like  to  travel  in  triumphal  caravans ;  to  see 
your  effigy  placarded  on  city  walls;  to  have  your 
levees  attended  by  admiring  crowds,  all  crying  out, 
"  Was  there  ever  such  a  wonder  of  a  woman?"  You 
would  like  admiration?  Consider  the  tax  you  pay 
for  it.  You  would  be  alone  were  you  eminent.  Were 
you  so  distinguished  that  your  neighbors — I  will  not 
say  by  a  beard  and  whiskers,  that  were  odious — but 
by  a  great  and  remarkable  intellectual  superiority — 
would  you,  do  you  think,  be  any  the  happier?     Con- 


A  MISSISSIPPI   BUBBLE.  233 

siderenvy.  Consider  solitude.  Consider  the  jealousy 
and  torture  of  mind  which  this  Kentucky  lady  must 
feel,  suppose  she  is  to  hear  that  there  is,  let  us  say,  a 
Missouri  prodigy,  with  a  beard  larger  than  hers? 
Consider  how  she  is  separated  from  her  kind  by  the 
possession  of  that  wonder  of  a  beard  ?  When  that 
beard  grows  gray,  how  lonely  she  will  be,  the  poor 
old  thing !  If  it  falls  off,  the  public  admiration  falls 
off  too ;  and  how  she  will  miss  it  —  the  compliments 
of  the  trumpeters,  the  admiration  of  the  crowd,  the 
gilded  progress  of  the  car.  I  see  an  old  woman  alone 
in  a  decrepit  old  caravan,  with  cobwebs  on  the  knock- 
er, with  a  blistered  ensign  flapping  idly  over  the  door. 
Would  you  like  to  be  that  deserted  person  ?  Ah ! 
Chloe.  To  be  good,  to  be  simple,  to  be  modest,  to  be 
loved,  be  thy  lot.  Be  thankful  thou  art  not  taller, 
nor  stronger,  nor  richer,  nor  wiser  than  the  rest  of  the 
world. 


234 


ROUNDABOUT  PAPEES. 


ON   LETTS'S  DIARY. 


IKE  is  one  of  your  No. 
12  diaries,  three  shil- 
lings cloth  boards; 
silk  limp,  gilt  edges, 
three  and  six;  French 
morocco,  tuck  ditto, 
.  four  and  six.  It  has 
two  pages,  ruled  with 
faint  lines  for  mem- 
oranda, for  every 
week,  and  a  ruled  ac- 
count at  the  end,  for 
the  twelve  months  from  January  to  December,  where 
you  may  set  down  your  incomings  and  your  expenses. 
I  hope  yours,  my  respected  reader,  are  large;  that 
there  are  many  fine  round  sums  of  figures  on  each 
side  of  the  page :  liberal  on  the  expenditure  side, 
greater  still  on  the  receipt.  I  hope,  sir,  you  will  be 
"a  better  man,"  as  they  say,  in  '62  than  in  this  mori- 
bund '61,  whose  career  of  life  is  just  coming  to  its 
terminus.  A  better  man  in  purse  ?  in  body  ?  in  soul's 
health?  Amen,  good  sir,  in  all.  Who  is  there  so 
good  in  mind,  body,  or  estate,  but  bettering  won't  still 
be  good  for  him  ?  Oh  unknown  Fate,  presiding  over 
next  year,  if  you  will  give  me  better  health,  a  better 


ON  LETTS'S  DIARY.  235 

appetite,  a  better  digestion,  a  better  income,  a  better 
temper  in  '62  than  you  have  bestowed  in  '61, 1  think 
your  servant  will  be  the  better  for  the  change.  For 
instance,  I  should  be  the  better  for  a  new  coat.  This 
one,  I  acknowledge,  is  very  old.  The  family  says  so. 
My  good  friend,  who  among  us  would  not  be  the  bet- 
ter if  he  would  give  up  some  old  habits  ?  Yes,  yes. 
You  agree  with  me.  You  take  the  allegory?  Alas! 
at  our  time  of  life  we  don't  like  to  give  up  those  old 
habits,  do  we  ?  It  is  ill  to  change.  There  is  the  good 
old  loose,  easy,  slovenly  bedgown,  laziness,  for  exam- 
ple. What  man  of  sense  likes  to  fling  it  off  and  put 
on  a  tight,  guinde,  prim  dress  coat  that  pinches  him  ? 
There  is  the  cozy  wrap-rascal  self-indulgence — how 
easy  it  is !  How  warm !  How  it  always  seems  to  fit! 
You  can  walk  out  in  it ;  you  can  go  down  to  dinner 
in  it.  You  can  say  of  such  what  Tully  says  of  his 
books :  Pernodat  nobiscum,  peregrinatur,  rusticatur.  It 
is  a  little  slatternly — it  is  a  good  deal  stained — it  isn't 
becoming — it  smells  of  cigar  smoke;  but,  allons  done! 
let  the  world  call  me  idle  and  sloven.  I  love  my  ease 
better  than  my  neighbor's  opinion.  I  live  to  please 
myself;  not  you,  Mr.  Danby,  with  your  supercilious 
airs.  I  am  a  philosopher.  Perhaps  I  live  in  my  tub, 
and  don't  make  any  other  use  of  it —  We  won't  pur- 
sue farther  this  unsavory  metaphor  ;  but,  with  regard 
to  some  of  your  old  habits,  let  us  say, 

1.  The  habit  of  being  censorious,  and  speaking  ill 
of  your  neighbors. 

2.  The  habit  of  getting  into  a  passion  with  your 
man-servant,  your  maid-servant,  your  daughter,  wife, 
etc. 


236  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

3.  The  habit  of  indulging  too  much  at  table. 

4.  The  habit  of  smoking  in  the  dining-room  after 
dinner. 

5.  The  habit  of  spending  insane  sums  of  money  in 
brie  &  brae,  tall  copies,  binding,  Elzevirs,  etc. ;  '20  Port, 
outrageously  fine  horses,  ostentatious  entertainments, 
and  what  not ;  or, 

6.  The  habit  of  screwing  meanly,  when  rich,  and 
chuckling  over  the  saving  of  half  a  crown,  while  you 
are  poisoning  your  friends  and  family  with  bad  wine. 

7.  The  habit  of  going  to  sleep  immediately  after 
dinner,  instead  of  cheerfully  entertaining  Mrs.  Jones 
and  the  family ;  or, 

8.  Ladies!  The  habit  of  running  up  bills  with  the 
milliners,  and  swindling  paterfamilias  on  the  house 
bills. 

9.  The  habit  of  keeping  him  waiting  for  breakfast. 

10.  The  habit  of  sneering  at  Mrs.  Brown  and  the 
Miss  Browns  because  they  are  not  quite  du  monde,  or 
quite  so  genteel  as  Lady  Smith. 

11.  The  habit  of  keeping  your  wretched  father  up 
at  balls  till  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  he  has 
to  be  at  his  office  at  eleven. 

12.  The  habit  of  fighting  with  each  other,  dear 
Louisa,  Jane,  Arabella,  Amelia. 

13.  The  habit  of  always  ordering  John  Coachman 
three  quarters  of  an  hour  before  you  want  him. 

Such  habits,  I  say,  sir  or  madam,  if  you  have  had 
to  note  in  your  diary  of  '61, 1  have  not  the  slightest 
doubt  you  will  enter  in  your  pocket-book  of  '62. 
There  are  habits  ISTos.  4  and  7,  for  example.  I  am 
morally  sure  that  some  of  us  will  not  give  up  those 


ON  LETT'S  DIARY.  237 

bad  customs,  though  the  women  cry  out  and  grumble, 
and  scold  ever  so  justly.  There  are  habits  Nos.  9 
and  13.  I  feel  perfectly  certain,  my  dear  young 
ladies,  that  you  will  continue  to  keep  John  Coach- 
man waiting ;  that  you  will  continue  to  give  the  most 
satisfactory  reasons  for  keeping  him  waiting ;  and  as 
for  (9),  you  will  show  that  you  once  (on  the  1st  of 
April  last,  let  us  say)  came  to  breakfast  first,  and  that 
you  are  always  first  in  consequence. 

Yes ;  in  our  '62  diaries,  I  fear  we  may  all  of  us 
make  some  of  the  '61  entries.  There  is  my  friend 
Freehand,  for  instance.  (Aha !  Master  Freehand,  how 
you  will  laugh  to  find  yourself  here !)  F.  is  in  the 
habit  of  spending  a  little,  ever  so  little,  more  than  his 
income.  Lie  shows  you  how  Mrs.  Freehand  works 
and  works  (and,  indeed,  Jack  Freehand,  if  you  say  she 
is  an  angel,  you  don't  say  too  much  of  her) ;  how  they 
toil,  and  how  they  mend,  and  patch,  and  pinch ;  and 
how  they  canH  live  on  their  means.  And  I  very  much 
fear,  nay,  I  will  bet  him  half  a  bottle  of  Gladstone  14s. 
per  dozen  claret,  that  the  account,  which  is  a  little  on 
the  wrong  side  this  year,  will  be  a  little  on  the  wrong 
side  in  the  next  ensuing  year  of  grace. 

A  diary.  Dies  To  die.  How  queer  to  read  are 
some  of  the  entries  in  the  journal !  Here  are  the 
records  of  dinners  eaten,  and  gone  the  way  of  flesh. 
The  lights  burn  blue  somehow,  and  we  sit  before  the 
ghosts  of  victuals.  Hark  at  the  dead  jokes  resurg- 
ing!  Memory  greets  them  with  a  ghost  of  a  smile. 
Here  are  the  lists  of  the  individuals  who  have  dined 
at  your  own  humble  table.  The  agonies  endured  be- 
fore and  during  those  entertainments  are  renewed  and 


238  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

smart  again.  What  a  failure  that  special  grand  din- 
ner was !  How  those  dreadful  occasional  waiters  did 
break  the  old  china !  What  a  dismal  hash  poor  Mary, 
the  cook,  made  of  the  French  dish  which  she  would 
try  out  of  Francatellif  How  angry  Mrs.  Pope  was 
at  not  going  down  to  dinner  before  Mrs.  Bishop ! 
How  Trimalchio  sneered  at  your  absurd  attempt  to 
give  a  feast;  and  Harpagon  cried  out  at  your  ex- 
travagance and  ostentation!  How  Lady  Almack 
bullied  the  other  ladies  in  the  drawing-room  (when 
no  gentlemen  were  present);  never  asked  you  back 
to  dinner  again ;  left  her  card  by  her  footman ;  and 
took  not  the  slightest  notice  of  your  wife  and  daugh- 
ters at  Lady  Hustleby's  assembly!  On  the  other 
hand,  how  easy,  cozy,  merry,  comfortable,  those  little 
dinners  were ;  got  up  at  one  or  two  days'  notice ;  when 
every  body  was  contented ;  the  soup  as  clear  as  am- 
ber ;  the  wine  as  good  as  Trimalchio's  own ;  and  the 
people  kept  their  carriages  waiting,  and  would  not  go 
away  till  midnight ! 

Along  with  the  catalogue  of  by-gone  pleasures, 
balls,  banquets,  and  the  like,  which  the  pages  record, 
comes  a  list  of  much  more  important  occurrences  and 
remembrances  of  graver  import.  On  two  days  of 
Dives's  diary  are  printed  notices  that  "  Dividends  are 
due  at  the  Bank."  Let  us  hope,  dear  sir,  that  this  an- 
nouncement considerably  interests  you ;  in  which  case, 
probably,  you  have  no  need  of  the  almanac-maker's 
printed  reminder.  If  you  look  over  poor  Jack  Eeck- 
less's  note-book,  among  his  memoranda  of  racing  odds 
given  and  taken,  perhaps  you  may  read :  "  Nabbam's 
bill,  due  29th  of  September,  £142  15s.  6d"     Let  us 


239 

trust,  as  the  day  has  passed,  that  the  little  transaction 
here  noted  has  been  satisfactorily  terminated.  If  you 
are  paterfamilias,  and  a  worthy,  kind  gentleman,  no 
doubt  you  have  marked  down  on  your  register,  17th 
of  December  (say),  "  Boys  come  home."  Ah  !  how 
carefully  that  blessed  day  is  marked  in  their  little  cal- 
endars !  In  my  time  it  used  to  be,  Wednesday,  13th 
of  November,  "5  weeks  from  the  holidays ;"  "Wednes- 
day, 20th  of  November,  "4  weeks  from  the  holidays ;" 
until  sluggish  time  sped  on,  and  we  came  to  Wednes- 
day, 18th  of  December.  Oh  rapture !  Do  you  re- 
member pea*shooters  ?  I  think  we  only  had  them  on 
going  home  for  holidays  from  private  schools  —  at 
public  schools  men  are  too  dignified.  And  then 
came  that  glorious  announcement,  Wednesday,  27th, 
u  Papa  took  us  to  the  Pantomime ;"  or  if  not  papa, 
perhaps  you  condescended  to  go  to  the  pit,  under 
charge  of  the  footman. 

That  was  near  the  end  of  the  year ;  and  mamma 
gave  you  a  new  pocket-book,  perhaps,  with  a  little 
coin,  God  bless  her !  in  the  pocket.  And  that  pock- 
et-book was  for  next  year,  you  know;  and  in  that 
pocket-book  you  had  to  write  down  that  sad  day, 
Wednesday,  January  24th,  eighteen  hundred  and  nev- 
er mind  what,  when  Dr.  Birch's  young  friends  were 
expected  to  reassemble. 

Ah  me !  Every  person  who  turns  this  page  over 
has  his  own  little  diary  in  paper  or  ruled  in  his  mem- 
ory tablets,  and  in  which  are  set  down  the  transactions 
of  the  now  dying  year.  Boys  and  men,  we  have  our 
calendar,  mothers  and  maidens.  For  example,  in  your 
calendar  pocket-book,  my  good  Eliza,  what  a  sad,  sad 


240  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

day  that  is — how  fondly  and  bitterly  remembered — 
when  your  boy  went  off  to  his  regiment,  to  India,  to 
danger,  to  battle,  perhaps.  What  a  day  was  that  last 
day  at  home,  when  the  tall  brother  sat  yet  among  the 
family,  the  little  ones  round  about  him  wondering  at 
saddle -boxes,  uniforms,  sword -cases,  gun -cases,  and 
other  wondrous  apparatus  of  war  and  travel  which 
poured  in  and  filled  the  hall;  the  new  dressing-case 
for  the  beard  not  yet  grown ;  the  great  sword-case  at 
which  little  brother  Tom  looks  so  admiringly !  What 
a  dinner  that  was,  that  last  dinner,  when  little  and 
grown  children  assembled  together,  and  all  tried  to 
be  cheerful !  What  a  night  was  that  last  night,  when 
the  young  ones  were  at  roost  for  the  last  time  togeth- 
er under  the  same  roof,  and  the  mother  lay  alone  in 
her  chamber  counting  the  fatal  hours  as  they  tolled 
one  after  another,  amid  her  tears,  her  watching,  her 
fond  prayers.  What  a  night  that  was,  and  yet  how 
quickly  the  melancholy  dawn  came !  Only  too  soon 
the  sun  rose  over  the  houses.  And  now,  in  a  moment 
more,  the  city  seemed  to  wake.  The  house  began  to 
stir.  The  family  gathers  together  for  the  last  meal. 
For  the  last  time  in  the  midst  of  them  the  widow 
kneels  among  her  kneeling  children,  and  falters  a 
prayer,  in  which  she  commits  her  dearest,  her  eldest 
born,  to  the  care  of  the  Father  of  all.  Oh  night,  what 
tears  you  hide — what  prayers  you  hear !  And  so  the 
nights  pass  and  the  days  succeed,  until  that  one  comes 
when  tears  and  parting  shall  be  no  more. 

In  your  diary,  as  in  mine,  there  are  days  marked 
with  sadness,  not  for  this  year  only,  but  for  all.  On 
a  certain  day,  and  the  sun,  perhaps,  shining  ever  so 


ON  LETTS'S  DIAKY.  241 

brightly,  the  house-mother  comes  down  to  her  family 
with  a  sad  face,  which  scares  the  children  round  about 
in  the  midst  of  their  laughter  and  prattle.  They  may 
have  forgotten — but  she  has  not — a  day  which  came, 
twenty  years  ago  it  may  be,  and  which  she  remem- 
bers only  too  well ;  the  long  night-watch ;  the  dread- 
ful dawning,  and  the  rain  beating  at  the  pane ;  the  in- 
fant speechless,  but  moaning  in  its  little  crib;  and 
then  the  awful  calm,  the  awful  smile  on  the  sweet 
cherub  face,  when  the  cries  have  ceased,  and  the  little 
suffering  breast  heaves  no  more.  Then  the  children, 
as  they  see  their  mother's  face,  remember  this  was  the 
day  on  which  their  little  brother  died.  It  was  before 
they  were  born ;  but  she  remembers  it.  And  as  they 
pray  together,  it  seems  almost  as  if  the  spirit  of  the 
little  lost  one  was  hovering  round  the  group.  So 
they  pass  away:  friends,  kindred,  the  dearest-loved, 
grown  people,  aged,  infants.  As  we  go  on  the  down- 
hill journey,  the  mile-stones  are  grave-stones,  and  on 
each  more  and  more  names  are  written ;  unless  haply 
you  live  beyond  man's  common  age,  when  friends 
have  dropped  off,  and,  tottering,  and  feeble,  and  un- 
pitied,  you  reach  the  terminus  alone. 

In  this  past  year's  diary  is  there  any  precious  day 
noted  on  which  you  have  made  a  new  friend  ?  This 
is  a  piece  of  good  fortune  bestowed  but  grudginly  on 
the  old.  After  a  certain  age  a  new  friend  is  a  won- 
der, like  Sarah's  child.  Aged  persons  are  seldom 
capable  of  bearing  friendships.  Do  you  remember 
how  warmly  you  loved  Jack  and  Tom  when  you  were 
at  school ;  what  a  passionate  regard  you  had  for  Ned 
when  you  were  at  college,  and  the  immense  letters 

L 


242  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

you  wrote  to  each  other?  How  often  do  you  write, 
now  that  postage  costs  nothing  ?  There  is  the  age  of 
blossoms  and  sweet  budding  green ;  the  age  of  gener- 
ous summer ;  the  autumn  when  the  leaves  drop ;  and 
then  winter,  shivering  and  bare.  Quick,  children,  and 
sit  at  my  feet,  for  they  are  cold,  very  cold,  and  it  seems 
as  if  neither  wine  nor  worsted  will  warm  'em. 

In  this  past  year's  diary  is  there  any  dismal  day- 
noted  in  which  you  have  lost  a  friend?  In  mine 
there  is.  I  do  not  mean  by  death.  Those  who  are 
gone,  you  have.  Those  who  departed  loving  you, 
love  you  still,  and  you  love  them  always.  They  are 
not  really  gone,  those  dear  hearts  and  true ;  they  are 
only  gone  into  the  next  room ;  and  you  will  presently 
get  up  and  follow  them,  and  yonder  door  will  close 
upon  yo u,  and  you  will  be  no  more  seen.  As  I  am  in 
this  cheerful  mood,  I  will  tell  you  a  fine  touching 
story  of  a  doctor  which  I  heard  lately.  About  two 
years  since  there  was,  in  our  or  some  other  city,  a 
famous  doctor,  into  whose  consulting-room  crowds 
came  daily,  so  that  they  might  be  healed.  Now  this 
doctor  had  a  suspicion  that  there  was  something  vital- 
ly wrong  with  himself,  and  he  went  to  consult  another 
famous  physician  at  Dublin,  or  it  may  be  at  Edin- 
burgh. And  he  at  Edinburgh  punched  his  comrade's 
sides,  and  listened  at  his  heart  and  lungs,  and  felt  his 
pulse,  I  suppose,  and  looked  at  his  tongue ;  and  when 
he  had  done,  Doctor  London  said  to  Doctor  Edin- 
burgh, " Doctor,  how  long  have  I  to  live?"  And 
Doctor  Edinburgh  said  to  Doctor  London,  "  Doctor, 
you  may  last  a  year." 

Then  Doctor  London  came  home,  knowing  that 


243 

what  Doctor  Edinburgh  said  was  true.  And  he  made 
up  his  accounts,  with  man  and  heaven,  I  trust.  And 
he  visited  his  patients  as  usual.  And  he  went  about 
healing,  and  cheering,  and  soothing,  and  doctoring, 
and  thousands  of  sick  people  were  benefited  by  him. 
And  he  said  not  a  word  to  his  family  at  home,  but 
lived  among  them  cheerful  and  tender,  and  calm  and 
loving,  though  he  knew  the  night  was  at  hand  when 
he  should  see  them  and  work  no  more. 

And  it  was  winter  time,  and  they  came  and  told 
him  that  some  man  at  a  distance — very  sick,  but  very 
rich — wanted  him  ;  and,  though  Doctor  London  knew 
that  he  was  himself  at  death's  door,  he  went  to  the 
sick  man ;  for  he  knew  the  large  fee  would  be  good 
for  his  children  after  him.  And  he  died;  and  his 
family  never  knew,  until  he  was  gone,  that  he  had 
been  long  aware,  of  the  inevitable  doom. 

This  is  a  cheerful  carol  for  Christmas,  is  it  not? 
You  see,  in  regard  to  these  Koundabout  discourses,  I 
never  know  whether  they  are  to  be  merry  or  dismal. 
My  hobby  has  the  bit  in  his  mouth;  goes  his  own 
way ;  and  sometimes  trots  through  a  park,  and  some- 
times paces  by  a  cemetery.  Two  days  since  came  the 
printer's  little  emissary  with  a  note,  saying,  "  We  are 
waiting  for  the  Eoundabout  Paper !"  A  Koundabout 
Paper  about  what  or  whom?  How  stale  it  has  be- 
come, that  printed  jollity  about  Christmas !  Carols, 
and  wassail  bowls,  and  holly,  and  mistletoe,  and  yule 
logs  de  commande — what  heaps  of  these  have  we  not 
had  for  years  past !  Well,  year  after  year  the  season 
comes.  Come  frost,  come  thaw,  come  snow,  come 
rain,  year  after  year  my  neighbor  the  parson  has  to 


244  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

make  his  sermon.  They  are  getting  together  the 
bonbons,  iced  cakes,  Christmas-trees  at  Fortnum's  and 
Mason's  now.  The  genii  of  the  theatres  are  compos- 
ing the  Christmas  pantomime,  which  our  young  folks 
will  see  and  note  anon  in  their  little  diaries. 

And  now,  brethren,  may  I  conclude  this  discourse 
with  an  extract  out  of  that  great  diary,  the  news- 
paper? I  read  it  but  yesterday,  and  it  has  mingled 
with  all  my  thoughts  since  then.  Here  are  the  two 
paragraphs,  which  appeared  following  each  other: 

"Mr.  E.,  the  Advocate  General  of  Calcutta,  has 
been  appointed  to  the  post  of  Legislative  Member  of 
the  Council  of  the  Governor  General." 

"Sir  R  S.,  agent  to  the  Governor  General  for  Cen- 
tral India,  died  on  the  29th  of  October,  of  bronchitis." 
These  two  men,  whose  different  fates  are  recorded 
in  two  paragraphs  and  half  a  dozen  lines  of  the  same 
newspaper,  were  sisters'  sons.     In  one  of  the  stories 
by  the  present  writer,  a  man  is  described  tottering 
"up  the  steps  of  the  ghaut,"  having  just  parted  with 
his  child,  whom  he  is  dispatching  to  England  from 
India.     I  wrote  this,  remembering  in  long,  long  dis- 
tant days  such  a  ghaut,  or  river-stair,  at  Calcutta ;  and 
a  day  when,  down  those  steps,  to  a  boat  which  was  in 
waiting,  came  two  children,  whose  mothers  remained 
on  the  shore.     One  of  those  ladies  was  never  to  see 
her  boy  more ;  and  he,  too,  is  just  dead  in  India,  "  of 
bronchitis,  on  the  29th  of  October."     We  were  first 
cousins;  had  been  little  playmates  and  friends  from 
the  time  of  our  birth ;  and  the  first  house  in  London 
to  which  I  was  taken  was  that  of  our  aunt,  the  mother 
of  his  honor  the  Member  of  Council.     His  honor  was 


245 

even  then  a  gentleman  of  the  long  robe,  being,  in 
truth,  a  baby  in  arms.  We  Indian  children  were  con- 
signed to  a  school  of  which  our  deluded  parents  had 
heard  a  favorable  report,  but  which  was  governed  by 
a  horrible  little  tyrant,  who  made  our  young  lives  so 
miserable  that  I  remember  kneeling  by  my  little  bed 
of  a  night,  and  saying,  "  Pray  God,  I  may  dream  of 
my  mother!"  Thence  we  went  to  a  public  school, 
and  my  cousin  to  Addiscombe  and  to  India. 

"For  thirty -two  years,"  the  paper  says,  "Sir  Eich- 
mond  Shakespear  faithfully  and  devotedly  served  the 
government  of  India,  and  during  that  period  but  once 
visited  England,  for  a  few  months  and  on  public  duty. 
In  his  military  capacity  he  saw  much  service,  was 
present  in  eight  general  engagements,  and  was  badly 
wounded  in  the  last.  In  1840,  when  a  young  lieu- 
tenant, he  had  the  rare  good  fortune  to  be  the  means 
of  rescuing  from  almost  hopeless  slavery  in  Khiva 
416  subjects  of  the  Emperor  of  Eussia;  and,  but  two 
years  later,  greatly  contributed  to  the  happy  recovery 
of  our  own  prisoners  from  a  similar  fate  in  Cabul. 
Throughout  his  career  this  officer  was  ever  ready  and 
zealous  for  the  public  service,  and  freely  risked  life 
and  liberty  in  the  discharge  of  his  duties.  Lord 
Canning,  to  mark  his  high  sense  of  Sir  Eichmond 
Shakespear's  public  services,  had  lately  offered  him 
the  Chief  Commissionership  of  the  Mysore,  which  he 
had  accepted,  and  was  about  to  undertake,  when  death 
terminated  his  career." 

When  he  came  to  London  the  cousins  and  playfel- 
lows of  early  Indian  days  met  once  again,  and  shook 
hands.     "Can  I  do  any  thing  for  you?"  I  remember 


246  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

the  kind  fellow  asking.  He  was  always  asking  that 
question:  of  all  kinsmen;  of  all  widows  and  orphans; 
of  all  the  poor ;  of  young  men  who  might  need  his 
purse  or  his  service.  I  saw  a  young  officer  yesterday 
to  whom  the  first  words  Sir  Kichmond  Shakespear 
wrote  on  his  arrival  in  India  were,  "Can  I  do  any 
thing  for  you?"  His  purse  was  at  the  command  of 
all.  His  kind  hand  was  always  open.  It  was  a  gra- 
cious fate  which  sent  him  to  rescue  widows  and  cap- 
tives. Where  could  they  have  a  champion  more 
chivalrous,  a  protector  more  loving  and  tender? 

I  write  down  his  name  in  my  little  book  among 
those  of  others  dearly  loved,  who,  too,  have  been  sum- 
moned hence.  And  so  we  meet  and  part ;  we  strug- 
gle and  succeed ;  or  we  fail  and  drop  unknown  on  the 
way.  As  we  leave  the  fond  mother's  knee,  the  rough 
trials  of  childhood  and  boyhood  begin;  and  then 
manhood  is  upon  us,  and  the  battle  of  life,  with  its 
chances,  perils,  wounds,  defeats,  distinction.  And  Fort 
William  guns  are  saluting  in  one  man's  honor,*  while 
the  troops  are  firing  the  last  volleys  over  the  other's 
grave — over  the  grave  of  the  brave,  the  gentle,  the 
faithful  Christian  soldier. 

*  \V.  R.,  obiit  March  22,  1862. 


LITTLE    DUTCHMEN. 


NOTES  OF  A   WEEK'S  HOLIDAY. 


249 


NOTES   OF  A  WEEK'S   HOLIDAY. 


OST  of  us  tell 
-  old  stories 
in  our  fam- 
lies.  The 
wife  and 
children 
laugh  for 
the  hund- 
redth time 
at  the  joke. 
The  old 
servants 
(tho'  old 
servants 
are  fewer 
every  day)  nod  and  smile  a  recognition  at  the  well- 
known  anecdote.  "  Don't  tell  that  story  of  Grouse  in 
the  gun-room,"  says  Diggory  to  Mr.  Hardcastle  in  the 
play,  "or  I  must  laugh."  As  we  twaddle,  and  grow 
old  and  forgetful,  we  may  tell  an  old  story ;  or,  out 
of  mere  benevolence,  and  a  wish  to  amuse  a  friend 
when  conversation  is  flagging,  disinter  a  Joe  Miller 
now  and  then ;  but  the  practice  is  not  quite  honest, 
and  entails  a  certain  necessitv  of  hypocrisy  on  story 
L2  " 


250  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

hearers  and  tellers.  It  is  a  sad  thing  to  think  that  a 
man  with  what  you  call  a  fund  of  anecdote  is  a  hum- 
bug, more  or  less  amiable  and  pleasant.  What  right 
have  I  to  tell  my  "  Grouse  and  the  gun-room"  over 
and-  over  in  the  presence  of  my  wife,  mother,  mother- 
in-law,  sons,  daughters,  old  footman  or  parlor-maid, 
confidential  clerk,  curate,  or  what  not  ?  I  smirk  and 
go  through  the  history,  giving  my  admirable  imita- 
tions of  the  characters  introduced ;  I  mimic  Jones's 
grin,  Hobbs's  squint,  Brown's  stammer,  Grady's 
brogue,  Sandy's  Scotch  accent,  to  the  best  of  my 
power,  and  the  family  part  of  my  audience  laughs 
good  -  humoredly.  Perhaps  the  stranger,  for  whose 
amusement  the  performance  is  given,  is  amused  by  it, 
and  laughs  too.  But  this  practice  continued  is  not 
moral.  This  self-indulgence  on  your  part,  my  dear 
Paterfamilias,  is  weak — vain — not  to  say  culpable.  I 
can  imagine  many  a  worthy  man,  who  begins  un- 
guardedly to  read  this  page,  and  comes  to  the  present 
sentence,  lying  back  in  his  chair,  thinking  of  that 
story  which  he  has  told  innocently  for  fifty  years,  and 
rather  piteously  owning  to  himself,  "  Well,  well,  it  is 
wrong ;  I  have  no  right  to  call  on  my  poor  wife  to 
laugh,  my  daughters  to  affect  to  be  amused,  by  that 
old,  old  jest  of  mine.  And  they  would  have  gone 
on  laughing,  and  they  would  have  pretended  to  be 
amused,  to  their  dying  day,  if  this  man  had  not  flung 
his  damper  over  our  hilarity."  ...  I  lay  down  the 
pen,  and  think,  "Are  there  any  old  stories  which  I 
still  tell  myself  in  the  bosom  of  my  family  ?  Have  I 
any  'Grouse  in  my  gun-room?'"  If  there  are  such, 
it  is  because   my  memory  fails,  not  because  I  want 


NOTES  OF  A  WEEK'S  HOLIDAY.  251 

applause,  and  wantonly  repeat  myself.  You  see,  men 
with  the  so-called  fund  of  anecdote  will  not  repeat  the 
same  story  to  the  same  individual ;  but  they  do  think 
that  on  a  new  party  the  repetition  of  a  joke  ever  so 
old  may  be  honorably  tried.  I  meet  men  walking  the 
London  street  bearing  the  best  reputation,  men  of 
anecdotical  powers:  I  know  such,  who  very  likely 
will  read  this,  and  say,  "  Hang  the  fellow,  he  means 
me  /"  And  so  I  do.  No — no  man  ought  to  tell  an 
anecdote  more  than  thrice,  let  us  say,  unless  he  is  sure 
he  is  speaking  only  to  give  pleasure  to  his  hearers — 
unless  he  feels  that  it  is  not  a  mere  desire  for  praise 
which  makes  him  open  his  jaws. 

And  is  it  not  with  writers  as  with  raconteurs? 
Ought  they  not  to  have  their  ingenuous  modesty? 
May  authors  tell  old  stories,  and  how  many  times 
over  ?  When  I  come  to  look  at  a  place  which  I  have 
visited  any  time  these  twenty  or  thirty  years,  I  recall 
not  the  place  merely,  but  the  sensations  I  had  at  first 
seeing  it,  and  which  are  quite  different  to  my  feelings 
to-day.  That  first  day  at  Calais ;  the  voices  of  the 
women  crying  out  at  night,  as  the  vessel  came  along- 
side the  pier ;  the  supper  at  Quillacq's,  and  the  flavor 
of  the  cutlets  and  wine;  the  red  calico  canopy  under 
which  I  slept ;  the  tiled  floor,  and  the  fresh  smell  of 
the  sheets ;  the  wonderful  postillion  in  his  jack-boots 
and  pigtail,  all  return  with  perfect  clearness  to  my 
mind,  and  I  am  seeing  them,  and  not  the  objects  which 
are  actually  under  my  eyes.  Here  is  Calais.  Yon- 
der is  that  commissioner  I  have  known  this  score  of 
years.  Here  are  the  women  screaming  and  bustling 
over  the  baggage ;  the  people  at  the  passport-barrier 


252  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

who  take  your  papers.  My  good  people,  I  hardly 
see  you.  You  no  more  interest  me  than  a  dozen 
orange-women  in  Covent  Grarden,  or  a  shop  book- 
keeper in  Oxford  Street.  But  you  make  me  think 
of  a  time  when  you  were  indeed  wonderful  to  behold 
— when  the  little  French  soldiers  wore  white  cockades 
in  their  shakos — when  the  diligence  was  forty  hours 
going  to  Paris;  and  the  great-booted  postillion,  as 
surveyed  by  youthful  eyes  from  the  coupe',  with  his 
jurons,  his  ends  of  rope  for  the  harness,  and  his  clubbed 
pigtail,  was  a  wonderful  being,  and  productive  of  end- 
less amusement.  You  young  folks  don't  remember 
the  apple-girls  who  used  to  follow  the  diligence  up  the 
hill  beyond  Boulogne,  and  the  delights  of  the  jolly 
road?  In  making  Continental  journeys  with  young 
folks,  an  oldster  may  be  very  quiet,  and,  to  outward 
appearance,  melancholy ;  but  really  he  has  gone  back 
to  the  days  of  his  youth,  and  he  is  seventeen  or  eight- 
een years  of  age  (as  the  case  may  be),  and  is  amusing 
himself  with  all  his  might.  He  is  noting  the  horses 
as  they  come  squealing  out  of  the  post-house  yard  at 
midnight ;  he  is  enjoying  the  delicious  meals  at  Beau- 
vais  and  Amiens,  and  quaffing  ad  libitum  the  rich 
table  d'hote  wine;  he  is  hail-fellow  with  the  con- 
ductor, and  alive  to  all  the  incidents  of  the  road.  A 
man  can  be  alive  in  1860  and  1830  at  the  same  time, 
don't  you  see?  Bodily,  I  may  be  in  1860,  inert,  si- 
lent, torpid ;  but  in  the  spirit  I  am  walking  about  in 
1828,  let  us  say,  in  a  blue  dress  coat  and  brass  but- 
tons, a  sweet  figured  silk  waistcoat  (which  I  button 
round  a  slim  waist  with  perfect  ease),  looking  at  beau- 
tiful beings  with  gigot  sleeves  and  tea-tray  hats  under 


NOTES  OF  A  WEEK'S  HOLIDAY.  253 

the  golden  chestnuts  of  the  Tuileries,  or  round  the 
Place  Vendome,  where  the  drapeau  Wane  is  floating 
from  the  statueless  column.  Shall  we  go  and  dine  at 
Bombarda's,  near  the  Hotel  Breteuil,  or  at  the  Cafe 
Yirginie?  Away!  Bombarda's  and  the  Hotel  Bre- 
teuil have  been  pulled  down  ever  so  long.  They 
knocked  down  the  poor  old  Virginia  Coffee-house  last 
year.  My  spirit  goes  and  dines  there.  My  body, 
perhaps,  is  seated  with  ever  so  many  people  in  a  rail- 
way carriage,  and  no  wonder  my  companions  find  me 
dull  and  silent.  Have  you  read  Mr.  Dale  Owen's 
.Footsteps  on  the  Confines  of  Another  World?  (My  dear 
sir,  it  will  make  your  hair  stand  quite  refreshingly  on 
end.)  In  that  work  you  will  read  that  when  gentle- 
men's or  ladies'  spirits  travel  off  a  few  score  or  thou- 
sand miles  to  visit  a  friend,  their  bodies  lie  quiet  and 
in  a  torpid  state  in  their  beds  or  in  their  arm-chairs  at 
home.  So  in  this  way  I  am  absent.  My  soul  whisks 
away  thirty  years  back  into  the  past.  I  am  looking 
out  anxiously  for  a  beard.  I  am  getting  past  the 
age  of  loving  Byron's  poems,  and  pretend  that  I  like 
Wordsworth  and  Shelley  much  better.  Nothing  I 
eat  or  drink  (in  reason)  disagrees  with  me;  and  I 
know  whom  I  think  to  be  the  most  lovely  creature  in 
the  world.  Ah !  dear  maid  (of  that  remote  but  well- 
remembered  period),  are  you  a  wife  or  widow  now  ? 
are  you  dead?  are  you  thin,  and  withered,  and  old? 
or  are  you  grown  much  stouter,  with  a  false  front? 
and  so  forth. 

Oh  Eliza,  Eliza!  Stay,  was  she  Eliza?  Well,  I 
protest  I  have  forgotten  what  your  Christian  name 
was.     You  know  I  only  met  you  for  two  days,  but 


254  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

your  sweet  face  is  before  me  now,  and  the  roses  bloom- 
ing on  it  are  as  fresh  as  in  that  time  of  May.     Ah ! 

dear   Miss  X ,  my  timid  youth   and  ingenuous 

modesty  would  never  have  allowed  me,  even  in  my 
private  thoughts,  to  address  you  otherwise  than  by 
your  paternal  name,  but  that  (though  I  conceal  it)  I 
remember  perfectly  well,  and  that  your  dear  and  re- 
spected father  was  a  brewer. 

Carillon. — I  was  awakened  this  morning  with  the 
chime  which  Antwerp  cathedral  clock  plays  at  half 
hours.  The  tune  has  been  haunting  me  ever  since, 
as  tunes  will.  You  dress,  eat,  drink,  walk,  and  talk 
to  yourself  to  their  tune ;  their  inaudible  jingle  accom- 
panies you  all  day ;  you  read  the  sentences  of  the 
paper  to  their  rhythm.  I  tried  uncouthly  to  imitate 
the  tune  to  the  ladies  of  the  family  at  breakfast,  and 
they  say  it  is  "  the  shadow  dance  of  Dinorah."  It 
may  be  so.  I  dimly  remember  that  my  body  was 
once  present  during  the  performance  of  that  opera, 
while  my  eyes  were  closed,  and  my  intellectual  facul- 
ties dormant  at  the  back  of  the  box ;  howbeit,  I  have 
learned  that  shadow  dance  from  hearing  it  pealing  up 
ever  so  high  in  the  air  at  night,  morn,  noon. 

How  pleasant  to  lie  awake  and  listen  to  the  cheery 
peal,  while  the  old  city  is  asleep  at  midnight,  or  wak- 
ing up  rosy  at  sunrise,  or  basking  in  noon,  or  swept 
by  the  scudding  rain  which  drives  in  gusts  over  the 
broad  places,  and  the  great  shining  river ;  or  spark- 
ling in  snow,  which  dresses  up  a  hundred  thousand 
masts,  peaks,  and  towers;  or  wrapped  round  with 
thunder-cloud  canopies,  before  which  the  white  gables 


NOTES  OF  A  WEEK'S  HOLIDAY.  255 

shine  whiter;  day  and  night  the  kind  little  carillon 
plays  its  fantastic  melodies  overhead.  The  bells  go 
on  ringing.  Quot  vivos  vocant,  mortuos  plangunt,  ful- 
gura  frangunt ;  so  on  to  the  past  and  future  tenses, 
and  for  how  many  nights,  days,  and  years !  While 
the  French  were  pitching  their  fulgura  into  Chasse's 
citadel,  the  bells  went  on  ringing  quite  cheerfully. 
While  the  scaffolds  were  up  and  guarded  by  Alva's 
soldiery,  and  regiments  of  penitents,  blue,  black,  and 
gray,  poured  out  of  churches  and  convents,  droning 
their  dirges,  and  marching  to  the  place  of  the  Hotel 
de  Yille,  where  heretics  and  rebels  were  to  meet  their 
doom,  the  bells  up  yonder  were  chanting  at  their  ap- 
pointed half  hours  and  quarters,  and  rang  the  mauvais 
quart  oVheure  for  many  a  poor  soul.  This  bell  can  see 
as  far  away  as  the  towers  and  dikes  of  Kotterdam. 
That  one  can  call  a  greeting  to  St.  Ursula's  at  Brus- 
sels, and  toss  a  recognition  to  that  one  at  the  town 
hall  of  Oudenarde,  and  remember  how,  after  a  great 
struggle  there  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  the  whole 
plain  was  covered  with  the  flying  French  chivalry — 
Burgundy,  and  Berri,  and  the  Chevalier  of  St.  George 
flying  like  the  rest.  "  What  is  your  clamor  about 
Oudenarde?"  says  another  bell  (Bob  Major  this  one 
must  be).  "Be  still,  thou  querulous  old  clapper!  I 
can  see  over  to  Hougoumont  and  St.  John.  And 
about  forty-five  years  since,  I  rang  all  through  one 
Sunday  in  June,  when  there  was  such  a  battle  going 
on  in  the  cornfields  there  as  none  of  you  others  ever 
heard  tolled  of.  Yes,  from  morning  service  until 
after  vespers,  the  French  and  English  were  all  at  it, 
ding-dong."     And  then  calls  of  business  intervening, 


256  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

the  bells  have  to  give  up  their  private  jangle,  resume 
their  professional  duty,  and  sing  their  hourly  chorus 
out  of  Dinorah. 

What  a  prodigious  distance  those  bells  can  be  heard! 
I  was  awakened  this  morning  to  their  tune,  I  say.  I 
have  Keen  hearing  it  constantly  ever  since.  And  this 
house  whence  I  write,  Murray  says,  is  two  hundred 
and  ten  miles  from  Antwerp.  And  it  is  a  week  off; 
and  there  is  the  bell  still  jangling  its  shadow  dance 
out  of  Dinorah.  An  audible  shadow,  you  understand, 
and  an  invisible  sound,  but  quite  distinct ;  and  a 
plague  take  the  tune ! 

Under  the  Bells. — Who  has  not  seen  the  church 
under  the  bell?  Those  lofty  aisles,  those  twilight 
chapels,  that  cumbersome  pulpit  with  its  huge  carv- 
ings, that  wide  gray  pavement  flecked  with  various 
light  from  the  jeweled  windows,  those  famous  pictures 
between  the  voluminous  columns  over  the  altars  which 
twinkle  with  their  ornaments,  their  votive  little  silver 
hearts,  legs,  limbs,  their  little  guttering  tapers,  cups  of 
sham  roses,  and  what  not  ?  I  saw  two  regiments  of 
little  scholars  creeping  in  and  forming  square,  each  in 
its  appointed  place,  under  the  vast  roof,  and  teachers 
presently  coming  to  them.  A  stream  of  light  from 
the  jeweled  windows  beams  slanting  down  upon  each 
little  squad  of  children,  and  the  tall  background  of 
the  church  retires  into  a  grayer  gloom.  Pattering  lit- 
tle feet  of  laggards  arriving  echo  through  the  great 
nave.  They  trot  in  and  join  their  regiments,  gath- 
ered under  the  slanting  sunbeams.  What  are  they 
learning  ?     Is  it  truth  ?     Those  two  gray  ladies  with 


NOTES  OF  A  WEEK'S  HOLIDAY.  257 

their  books  in  their  hands  in  the  midst  of  these  little 
people  have  no  doubt  of  the  truth  of  every  word  they 
have  printed  under  their  eyes.  Look,  through  the 
windows  jeweled  all  over  with  saints,  the  light  comes 
streaming  down  from  the  sky,  and  heaven's  own  illu- 
minations paint  the  book !  A  sweet,  touching  picture 
indeed  it  is,  that  of  the  little  children  assembled  in 
this  immense  temple,  which  has  endured  for  ages,  and 
grave  teachers  bending  over  them.  Yes,  the  picture 
is  very  pretty  of  the  children  and  their  teachers,  and 
their  book — but  the  text?  Is  it  the  truth,  the  only 
truth,  nothing  but  the  truth?  If  I  thought  so,  I 
would  go  and  sit  down  on  the  form  cum  parvulis,  and 
learn  the  precious  lesson  with  all  my  heart. 

Beadle. — But  I  submit,  an  obstacle  to  conversions 
is  the  intrusion  and  impertinence  of  that  Swiss  fellow 
with  the  baldric — the  officer  who  answers  to  the 
beadle  of  the  British  Islands — and  is  pacing  about 
the  church  with  an  eye  on  the  congregation.  Now 
the  boast  of  Catholics  is  that  their  churches  are  open 
to  all ;  but  in  certain  places  and  churches  there  are 
exceptions.  At  Eome  I  have  been  into  St.  Peter's  at 
all  hours :  the  doors  are  always  open,  the  lamps  are 
always  burning,  the  faithful  are  forever  kneeling  at 
one  shrine  or  the  other.  But  at  Antwerp  not  so.  In 
the  afternoon  you  can  go  to  the  church  and  be  civilly 
treated,  but  you  must  pay  a  franc  at  the  side  gate.  In 
the  forenoon  the  doors  are  open,  to  be  sure,  and  there 
is  no  one  to  levy  an  entrance  fee.  I  was  standing  ever 
so  still,  looking  through  the  great  gates  of  the  choir 
at  the  twinkling  lights,  and  listening  to  the  distant 


258  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

chants  of  the  priests  performing  the  service,  when  a 
sweet  chorus  from  the  organ-loft  broke  out  behind  me 
overhead,  and  I  turned  round.  My  friend  the  drum- 
major  ecclesiastic  was  down  upon  me  in  a  moment. 
"Do  not  turn  your  back  to  the  altar  during  divine 
service,"  says  he,  in  very  intelligible  English.  I  take 
the  rebuke,  and  turn  a  soft  right-about  face,  and  listen 
a  while  as  the  service  continues.  See  it  I  can  not,  nor 
the  altar  and  its  ministrants.  We  are  separated  from 
these  by  a  great  screen  and  closed  gates  of  iron,  through 
which  the  lamps  glitter  and  the  chant  comes  by  gusts 
only.  Seeing  a  score  of  children  trotting  down  a  side 
aisle,  I  think  I  may  follow  them.  I  am  tired  of  look- 
ing at  that  hideous  old  pulpit,  with  its  grotesque  mon- 
sters and  decorations.  I  slip  off  to  the  side  aisle ;  but 
my  friend  the  drum-major  is  instantly  after  me — al- 
most I  thought  he  was  going  to  lay  hands  on  me. 
"You  mustn't  go  there,"  says  he;  "you  mustn't  dis- 
turb the  service."  I  was  moving  as  quietly  as  might 
be,  and  ten  paces  off  there  were  twenty  children  kick- 
ing and  clattering  at  their  ease.  I  point  them  out  to 
the  Swiss.  "They  come  to  pray,"  says  he.  "You 
don't  come  to  pray ;  you — "  "When  I  come  to  pay," 
says  I,  "I  am  welcome,"  and  with  this  withering  sar- 
casm I  walk  out  of  church  in  a  huff.  I  don't  envy 
the  feelings  of  that  beadle  after  receiving  point  blank 
such  a  stroke  of  wit. 

Leo  Belgicus. — Perhaps  you  will  say  after  this  I 
am  a  prejudiced  critic.  I  see  the  pictures  in  the  ca- 
thedral fuming  under  the  rudeness  of  that  beadle,  or, 
at  the  lawful  hours  and  prices,  pestered  by  a  swarm 


259 

of  shabby  touters,  who  come  behind  me  chattering  in 
bad  English,  and  who  would  have  me  see  the  sights 
through  their  mean,  greedy  eyes.  Better  see  Kubens 
any  where  than  in  a  church.  At  the  Academy,  for 
example,  where  you  may  study  him  at  your  leisure. 
But  at  church?  I  would  as  soon  ask  Alexandre  Du- 
mas for  a  sermon.  Either  would  paint  you  a  martyr- 
dom very  fiercely  and  picturesquely — writhing  mus- 
cles, flaming  coals,  scowling  captains  and  execution- 
ers, swarming  groups,  and  light,  shade,  color,  most 
dexterously  brilliant  or  dark;  but  in  Eubens  I  am 
admiring  the  performer  rather  than  the  piece.  With 
what  astonishing  rapidity  he  travels  over  his  canvas ; 
how  tellingly  the  cool  lights  and  warm  shadows  are 
made  to  contrast  and  relieve  each  other;  how  that 
blazing,  blowsy  penitent  in  yellow  satin  and  glittering- 
hair  carries  down  the  stream  of  light  across  the  pic- 
ture !  This  is  the  way  to  work,  my  boys,  and  earn  a 
hundred  florins  a  day.  See !  I  am  as  sure  of  my  line 
as  a  skater  of  making  his  figure  of  eight !  and  down 
with  a  sweep  goes  a  brawny  arm  or  a  flowing  curl  of 
drapery.  The  figures  arrange  themselves  as  if  by 
magic.  The  paint-pots  are  exhausted  in  furnishing 
brown  shadows.  The  pupils  look  wondering  on  as 
the  master  careers  over  the  canvas.  Isabel  or  Helena, 
wife  No.l  or  No.  2,  are  sitting  by,  buxom,  exuberant, 
ready  to  be  painted ;  and  the  children  are  boxing  in 
the  corner,  waiting  till  they  are  wanted  to  figure  as 
cherubs  in  the  picture.  Grave  burghers  and  gentle- 
folks come  in  on  a  visit.  There  are  oysters  and  Ehen- 
ish  always  ready  on  yonder  table.  Was  there  ever 
such  a  painter?     He  has  been  an  embassador,  an  act- 


260  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

ual  excellency,  and  what  better  man  could  be  chosen  ? 
He  speaks  all  the  languages.     He  earns  a  hundred 
florins  a  day.     Prodigious !     Thirty -six  thousand  five 
hundred  florins  a  year.    Enormous !    He  rides  out  to 
his  castle  with  a  score  of  gentlemen  after  him,  like  the 
governor.     That  is  his  own  portrait  as  St.  George. 
You  know  he  is  an  English  knight?     Those  are  his 
two  wives  as  the  two  Marys.     He  chooses  the  hand- 
somest wives.     He  rides  the  handsomest  horses.     He 
paints  the  handsomest  pictures.     He  gets  the  hand- 
somest prices  for  them.     That  slim  young  Yan  Dyck, 
who  was  his  pupil,  has  his  genius  too,  and  is  painting 
all  the  noble  ladies  in  England,  and  turning  the  heads 
of  some  of  them.     And  Jordaens — what  a  droll  dog 
and  clever  fellow !     Have  you  seen  his  fat  Silenus  ? 
The  master  himself  could  not  paint  better.     And  his 
altar-piece  at  St.  Bavon's  ?     He  can  paint  you  any 
thing,  that  Jordaens  can — a  drunken  jollification  of 
boors  and  doxies,  or  a  martyr  howling  with  half  his 
skin  off.    What  a  knowledge  of  anatomy !    But  there 
is  nothing  like  the  master — nothing.     He  can  paint 
you  his  thirty -six  thousand  five  hundred  florins'  worth 
a  year.    Have  you  heard  of  what  he  has  done  for  the 
French  court  ?    Prodigious !    I  can't  look  at  Eubens's 
pictures  without  fancying  I  see  that  handsome  figure 
swaggering  before  the  canvas.     And  Hans  Hemme- 
linck  at  Bruges?    Have  you  never  seen  that  dear  old 
hospital  of  St.  John,  on  passing  the  gate  of  which  you 
enter  into  the  fifteenth  century  ?     I  see  the  wounded 
soldier  still  lingering  in  the  house,  and  tended  by  the 
kind  gray  sisters.    His  little  panel  on  its  easel  is  placed 
at  the  light.     He  covers  his  board  with  the  most  won- 


NOTES  OF  A  WEEK'S  HOLIDAY.  261 

drous,  beautiful  little  figures,  in  robes  as  bright  as  ru- 
bies and  amethysts.  I  think  he  must  have  a  magic 
glass,  in  which  he  catches  the  reflection  of  little  cher- 
ubs with  many-colored  wings,  very  little  and  bright. 
Angels,  in  long  crisp  robes  of  white,  surrounded  with 
halos  of  gold,  come  and  nutter  across  the  mirror,  and 
he  draws  them.  He  hears  mass  every  day.  He  fasts 
through  Lent.  No  monk  is  more  austere  and  holy 
than  Hans.  Which  do  you  love  best  to  behold,  the 
lamb  or  the  lion?  the  eagle  rushing  through  the  storm, 
and  pouncing  mayhap  on  carrion,  or  the  linnet  war- 
bling on  the  spray  ? 

By  much  the  most  delightful  of  the  Christopher  set 
of  Kubens  to  my  mind  (and  ego  is  introduced  on  these 
occasions,  so  that  the  opinion  may  pass  only  for  my 
own,  at  the  reader's  humble  service  to  be  received  or 
declined)  is  the  "Presentation  in  the  Temple:"  splen- 
did in  color,  in  sentiment  sweet  and  tender,  finely  con- 
veying the  story.  To  be  sure,  all  the  others  tell  their 
tale  unmistakably — witness  that  coarse  "  Salutation," 
that  magnificent  "  Adoration  of  the  Kings"  (at  the 
Museum),  by  the  same  strong  downright  hands ;  that 
wonderful  "Communion  of  St.  Francis,"  which,  I  think, 
gives  the  key  to  the  artist's  /aire  better  than  any  of  his 
performances.  I  have  passed  hours  before  that  picture 
in  my  time,  trying  and  sometimes  fancying  I  could  un- 
derstand by  what  masses  and  contrasts  the  artist  ar- 
rived at  his  effect.  In  many  others  of  the  pictures 
parts  of  this  method  are  painfully  obvious,  and  you 
see  how  grief  and  agony  are  produced  by  blue  lips, 
and  eyes  rolling  bloodshot  with  dabs  of  vermilion. 
There  is  something  simple  in  the  practice.     Contort 


262  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

the  eyebrow  sufficiently,  and  place  the  eyeball  near  it 
— by  a  few  lines  you  have  anger  or  fierceness  depict- 
ed. Give  me  a  mouth  with  no  special  expression,  and 
pop  a  dab  of  carmine  at  each  extremity,  and  there  are 
the  lips  smiling.  This  is  art  if  you  will,  but  a  very 
naive  kind  of  art ;  and  now  you  know  the  trick,  don't 
you  see  how  easy  it  is  ? 

Tu  Quoque. — Now  you  know  the  trick,  suppose 
you  take  a  canvas  and  see  whether  you  can  do  it? 
There  are  brushes,  palettes,  and  gallipots  full  of  paint 
and  varnish.  Have  you  tried,  my  dear  sir — you,  who 
set  up  to  be  a  connoisseur  ?  Have  you  tried  ?  I  have, 
and  many  a  day.  And  the  end  of  the  day's  labor  ? 
Oh  dismal  conclusion !  Is  this  puerile  niggling,  this 
feeble  scrawl,  this  impotent  rubbish,  all  you  can  pro- 
duce— you,  who  but  now  found  Eubens  commonplace 
and  vulgar,  and  were  pointing  out  the  tricks  of  his 
mystery  ?  Pardon,  oh  great  chief,  magnificent  master 
and  poet !  You  can  do.  We  critics,  who  sneer  and 
are  wise,  can  but  pry,  and  measure,  and  doubt,  and 
carp.  Look  at  the  lion.  Did  you  ever  see  such  a 
gross,  shaggy,  mangy,  roaring  brute?  Look  at  him 
eating  lumps  of  raw  meat — positively  bleeding,  and 
raw,  and  tough — till,  faugh  !  it  turns  one's  stomach  to 
see  him — oh  the  coarse  wretch !  Yes,  but  he  is  a  lion. 
Eubens  has  lifted  his  great  hand,  and  the  mark  he  has 
made  has  endured  for  two  centuries,  and  we  still  con- 
tinue wondering  at  him,  and  admiring  him.  What 
a  strength  in  that  arm !  What  splendor  of  will  hid- 
den behind  that  tawny  beard  and  those  honest  eyes! 
Sharpen  your  pen,  my  good  critic.     Shoot  a  feather 


NOTES  OF  A  WEEK'S  HOLIDAY.  263 

into  him ;  hit  him,  and  make  him  wince.  Yes,  you 
may  hit  him  fair,  and  make  him  bleed  too ;  but,  for 
all  that,  he  is  a  lion — a  mighty,  conquering,  gener- 
ous, rampagious  Leo  Belgicus — monarch  of  his  wood. 
And  he  is  not  dead  yet,  and  I  will  not  kick  at  him. 

Sir  Antony.— In  that  "Pieta"  of  Yan  Dyck,  in  the 
Museum,  have  you  ever  looked  at  the  yellow-robed 
angel,  with  the  black  scarf  thrown  over  her  wings  and 
robe  ?  What  a  charming  figure  of  grief  and  beauty ! 
What  a  pretty  compassion  it  inspires!  It  soothes 
and  pleases  me  like  a  sweet  rhythmic  chant.  See 
how  delicately  the  yellow  robe  contrasts  with  the  blue 
sky  behind,  and  the  scarf  binds  the  two !  If  Kubens 
lacked  grace,  Yan  Dyck  abounded  in  it.  What  a  con- 
summate elegance!  What  a  perfect  cavalier!  No 
wonder  the  fine  ladies  in  England  admired  Sir  Anto- 
ny.    Look  at — 

Here  the  clock  strikes  three,  and  the  three  gen- 
darmes who  keep  the  Musde  cry  out,  "  Allons!  Sor- 
tons!  II  est  trois  heuresf  Allez!  Sortez  /"  and  they 
skip  out  of  the  gallery  as  happy  as  boys  running  from 
school.  And  we  must  go  too;  for,  though  many 
stay  behind — many  Britons  with  Murray's  hand- 
books in  their  handsome  hands — they  have  paid  a 
franc  for  entrance-fee,  you  see,  and  we  knew  nothing 
about  the  franc  for  entrance  until  those  gendarmes 
with  sheathed  sabres  had  driven  us  out  of  this  Para- 
dise. 

But  it  was  good  to  go  and  drive  on  the  great  quays, 
and  see  the  ships  unlading,  and  by  the  citadel,  and 
wonder  howabouts  and  whereabouts  it  was  so  strong. 


264  ROUNDABOUT  PAPEES. 

"We  expect  a  citadel  to  look  like  Gibraltar  or  Ehren- 
breitstein  at  least.  But  in  this  one  there  is  nothing 
to  see  but  a  flat  plain  and  some  ditches,  and  some 
trees,  and  mounds  of  uninteresting  green.  And  then 
I  remember  how  there  was  a  boy  at  school,  a  little 
dumpy  fellow  of  no  personal  appearance  whatever, 
who  couldn't  be  overcome  except  by  a  much  bigger 
champion,  and  the  immensest  quantity  of  thrashing. 
A  perfect  citadel  of  a  boy,  with  a  General  Chasse  sit- 
ting in  that  bomb-proof  casemate,  his  heart,  letting 
blow  after  blow  come  thumping  about  his  head,  and 
never  thinking  of  giving  in. 

And  we  go  home,  and  we  dine  in  the  company  of 
Britons  at  the  comfortable  Hotel  du  Pare;  and  we 
have  bought  a  novel  apiece  for  a  shilling,  and  every 
half  hour  the  sweet  carillon  plays  the  waltz  from 
Dinorah  in  the  air.  And  we  have  been  happy ;  and 
it  seems  about  a  month  since  we  left  London  yester- 
day ;  and  nobody  knows  where  we  are,  and  we  defy 
care  and  the  postman. 

Spoohweg-. — Yast  green  flats,  speckled  by  spotted 
cows,  and  bound  by  a  gray  frontier  of  wind-mills; 
shining  canals  stretching  through  the  green;  odors 
like  those  exhaled  from  the  Thames  in  the  dog-days, 
and  a  fine  pervading  smell  of  cheese;  little  trim 
houses,  with  tall  roofs,  and  great  windows  of  many 
panes ;  gazebos,  or  summer-houses,  hanging  over  pea- 
green  canals ;  kind-looking,  dumpling-faced  farmers' 
women,  with  laced  caps  and  golden  frontlets  and  ear- 
rings ;  about  the  houses  and  towns  which  we  pass  a 
great  air  of  comfort  and  neatness;  a  queer  feeling  of 


NOTES  OF  A  WEEK'S  HOLIDAY.  265 

wonder  that  you  can't  understand  what  your  fellow- 
passengers  are  saying,  the  tone  of  whose  voices,  and  a 
certain  comfortable  dowdiness  of  dress,  are  so  like  our 
own — while  we  are  remarking  on  these  sights,  sounds, 
smells,  the  little  railway  journey  from  Eotterdam  to 
the  Hague  comes  to  an  end.  I  speak  to  the  railway 
porters  and  hackney-coachmen  in  English,  and  they 
reply  in  their  own  language,  and  it  seems  somehow  as 
if  we  understood  each  other  perfectly.  The  carriage 
drives  to  the  handsome,  comfortable,  cheerful  hotel. 
"We  sit  down  a  score  at  the  table,  and  there  is  one  for- 
eigner and  his  wife — I  mean  every  other  man  and 
woman  at  dinner  are  English.  As  we  are  close  to  the 
sea,  and  in  the  midst  of  endless  canals,  we  have  no 
fish.  We  are  reminded  of  dear  England  by  the  noble 
prices  which  we  pay  for  wines.  I  confess  I  lost  my 
temper  yesterday  at  Rotterdam,  where  I  had  to  pay  a 
florin  for  a  bottle  of  ale  (the  water  not  being  drink- 
able, and  country  or  Bavarian  beer  not  being  genteel 
enough  for  the  hotel) — I  confess,  I  say,  that  my  fine 
temper  was  ruffled  when  the  bottle  of  pale  ale  turned 
out  to  be  a  pint  bottle,  and  I  meekly  told  the  waiter 
that  I  had  bought  beer  at  Jerusalem  at  a  less  price. 
But  then  Rotterdam  is  eighteen  hours  from  London, 
and  the  steamer  with  the  passengers  and  beer  comes 
up  to  the  hotel  windows;  while  to  Jerusalem  they 
have  to  carry  the  ale  on  camels'  backs  from  Beyrout 
or  Jaffa,  and  through  hordes  of  marauding  Arabs, 
who  evidently  don't  care  for  pale  ale,  though  I  am 
told  it  is  not  forbidden  in  the  Koran.  Mine  would 
have  been  very  good,  but  I  choked  with  rage  while 
drinking  it.     A  florin  for  a  bottle,  and  that  bottle 

M 


266  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

having  the  words  "  imperial  pint,"  in  bold  relief,  on 
the  surface !  It  was  too  much.  I  intended  not  to  say 
any  thing  about  it;  but  I  must  speak.  A  florin  a 
bottle,  and  that  bottle  a  pint !  Oh,  for  shame !  for 
shame !  I  can't  cork  down  my  indignation  ;  I  froth 
up  with  fury ;  I  am  pale  with  wrath,  and  bitter  with 
scorn. 

As  we  drove  through  the  old  city  at  night,  how  it 
swarmed  and  hummed  with  life!  What  a  special 
clatter,  crowd,  and  outcry  there  was  in  the  Jewish 
quarter,  where  myriads  of  young  ones  were  trotting 
about  the  fishy  street !  Why  don't  they  have  lamps? 
We  passed  by  canals  seeming  so  full  that  a  pailful  of 
water  more  would  overflow  the  place.  The  laquais  de 
place  calls  out  the  names  of  the  buildings :  the  town- 
hall,  the  cathedral,  the  arsenal,  the  synagogue,  the 
statue  of  Erasmus.  Get  along !  We  know  the  statue 
of  Erasmus  well  enough.  We  pass  over  drawbridges 
by  canals  where  thousands  of  barges  are  at  roost.  At 
roost — at  rest !  Shall  we  have  rest  in  those  bedrooms, 
those  ancient  lofty  bedrooms,  in  that  inn  where  we 
have  to  pay  a  florin  for  a  pint  of  pa — pshaw !  at  the 
New  Bath  Hotel  on  the  Boompjes?  If  this  dreary 
edifice  is  the  New  Bath,  what  must  the  Old  Bath  be 
like  ?  As  I  feared  to  go  to  bed,  I  sat  in  the  coffee- 
room  as  long  as  I  might ;  but  three  young  men  were 
imparting  their  private  adventures  to  each  other  with 
such  freedom  and  liveliness  that  I  felt  I  ought  not  to 
listen  to  their  artless  prattle.  As  I  put  the  light  out, 
and  felt  the  bedclothes  and  darkness  overwhelm  me, 
it  was  with  an  awful  sense  of  terror — that  sort  of  sen- 
sation which  I  should  think  going  down  in  a  diving- 


267 

bell  would  give.  Suppose  the  apparatus  goes  wrong, 
and  they  don't  understand  your  signal  to  mount? 
Suppose  your  matches  miss  fire  when  you  wake; 
when  you  want  them,  when  you  will  have  to  rise  in 
half  an  hour,  and  do  battle  with  the  horrid  enemy 
who  crawls  on  you  in  the  darkness?  I  protest  I 
never  was  more  surprised  than  when  I  woke  and  be- 
held the  light  of  dawn.  Indian  birds  and  strange 
trees  were  visible  on  the  ancient  gilt  hangings  of  the 
lofty  chamber,  and  through  the  windows  the  Boomp- 
jes  and  the  ships  along  the  quay.  We  have  all  read 
of  deserters  being  brought  out,  and  made  to  kneel, 
with  their  eyes  bandaged,  and  hearing  the  word  to 
"  Fire"  given !  I  declare  I  underwent  all  the  terrors 
of  execution  that  night,  and  wonder  how  I  ever  es- 
caped unwounded. 

.  But  if  ever  I  go  to  the  Bath  Hotel,  Eotterdam, 
again,  I  am  a  Dutchman.  A  guilder  for  a  bottle  of 
pale  ale,  and  that  bottle  a  pint !  Ah !  for  shame ! 
for  shame ! 

Mine  Ease  in  Mine  Inn. — Do  you  object  to  talk 
about  inns  ?  It  always  seems  to  me  to  be  very  good 
talk.  "Walter  Scott  is  full  of  inns.  In  Don  Quixote 
and  Gil  Bias  there  is  plenty  of  inn-talk.  Sterne, 
Fielding,  and  Smollett  constantly  speak  about  them ; 
and,  in  their  travels,  the  last  two  tot  up  the  bill,  and 
describe  the  dinner  quite  honestly ;  while  Mr.  Sterne 
becomes  sentimental  over  a  cab,  and  weeps  generous 
tears  over  a  donkey. 

How  I  admire  and  wonder  at  the  information  in 
Murray's  Hand-books  —  wonder  how  it  is  got,  and 


268  EOUNDABOUT  PAPEKS. 

admire  the  travelers  who  get  it.  For  instance,  you 
read :  Amiens  (please  select  your  towns),  60,000  in- 
habitants. Hotels,  etc. — Lion  d'Or,  good  and  clean. 
Le  Lion  d' Argent,  so  so.  Le  Lion  Noir,  bad,  dirty, 
and  dear.  Now  say  there  are  three  travelers — three 
inn-inspectors,  who  are  sent  forth  by  Mr.  Murray  on 
a  great  commission,  and  who  stop  at  every  inn  in  the 
world.  The  eldest  goes  to  the  Lion  d'Or  —  capital 
house,  good  table  d'hote,  excellent  wine,  moderate 
charges.  The  second  commissioner  tries  the  Silver 
Lion — tolerable  house,  bed,  dinner,  bill,  and  so  forth. 
But  fancy  Commissioner  No.  3 — the  poor  fag,  doubt- 
less, and  boots  of  the  party.  He  has  to  go  to  the  Lion 
Noir.  He  knows  he  is  to  have  a  bad  dinner — he  eats 
it  uncomplainingly.  He  is  to  have  bad  wine.  He 
swallows  it,  grinding  his  wretched  teeth,  and  aware 
that  he  will  be  unwell  in  consequence.  He  knows  he 
is  to  have  a  dirty  bed,  and  what  he  is  to  expect  there. 
He  pops  out  the  candle.  He  sinks  into  those  dingy 
sheets.  He  delivers  over  his  body  to  the  nightly  tor- 
mentors, he  pays  an  exorbitant  bill,  and  he  writes 
down,  "  Lion  Noir,  bad,  dirty,  dear."  Next  day  the 
commission  sets  out  for  Arras,  we  will  say,  and  they 
begin  again:  Le  Cochon  d'Or,  Le  Cochon  d' Argent, 
Le  Cochon  Noir  —  and  that  is  poor  Boots's  inn,  of 
course.  What  a  life  that  poor  man  must  lead !  What 
horrors  of  dinners  he  has  to  go  through !  What  a 
hide  he  must  have !  And  yet  not  impervious ;  for, 
unless  he  is  bitten,  how  is  he  to  be  able  to  warn  oth- 
ers ?  No ;  on  second  thoughts,  you  will  perceive  that 
he  ought  to  have  a  very  delicate  skin.  The  mon- 
sters ought  to  troop  to  him  eagerly,  and  bite  him  in- 


NOTES  OF  A  WEEK'S  HOLIDAY.  269 

stantaneously  and  freely,  so  that  he  may  be  able  to 
warn  all  future  hand-book  buyers  of  their  danger.  I 
fancy  this  man  devoting  himself  to  danger,  to  dirt,  to 
bad  dinners,  to  sour  wine,  to  damp  beds,  to  midnight 
agonies,  to  extortionate  bills.  I  admire  him — I  thank 
him.  Think  of  this  champion,  who  devotes  his  body 
for  us  —  this  dauntless  gladiator  going  to  do  battle 
alone  in  the  darkness,  with  no  other  armor  than  a 
light  helmet  of  cotton  and  a  lorica  of  calico.  I  pity 
and  honor  him.  Go,  Spartacus!  Go,  devoted  man 
— to  bleed,  to  groan,  to  suffer — and  smile  in  silence 
as  the  wild  beasts  assail  thee. 

How  did  I  come  into  this  talk  ?  I  protest  it  was 
the  word  inn  set  me  off — and  here  is  one,  the  Hotel 
de  Belle  Yue,  at  the  Hague,  as  comfortable,  as  hand- 
some, as  cheerful  as  any  I  ever  took  mine  ease  in. 
And  the  Bavarian  beer,  my  dear  friend,  how  good, 
and  brisk,  and  light  it  is !  Take  another  glass — it  re- 
freshes and  does  not  stupefy — and  then  we  will  sally 
out,  and  see  the  town,  and  the  park,  and  the  pictures. 

The  prettiest  little  brick  city,  the  pleasantest  little 
park  to  ride  in,  the  neatest,  comfortable  people  walk- 
ing about,  the  canals  not  unsweet,  and  busy  and  pic- 
turesque with  Old-World  life.  Eows  upon  rows  of 
houses,  built  with  the  neatest  little  bricks,  with  win- 
dows fresh  painted,,  and  tall  doors  polished  and  carved 
to  a  nicety.  What  a  pleasant  spacious  garden  our 
inn  has,  all  sparkling  with  autumn  flowers,  and  be- 
dizened with  statues !  At  the  end  is  a  row  of  trees, 
and  a  summer-house,  over  the  canal,  where  you  might 
go  and  smoke  a  pipe  with  Mynheer  Yan  Dunck,  and 
quite  cheerfully  catch  the  ague.     Yesterday,  as  we 


270  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

passed,  they  were  making  hay,  and  stacking  it  in 
a  barge  which  was  lying  by  the  meadow,  handy. 
Bound  about  Kensington  Palace  there  are  houses, 
roofs,  chimneys,  and  bricks  like  these.  I  feel  that  a 
Dutchman  is  a  man  and  a  brother.  It  is  very  funny 
to  read  the  newspaper ;  one  can  understand  it  some- 
how. Sure  it  is  the  neatest,  gayest  little  city — scores 
and  hundreds  of  mansions  looking  like  Cheyne  Walk, 
or  the  ladies'  schools  about  Ghiswick  and  Hackney. 

Le  Gros  Lot. — To  a  few  lucky  men  the  chance 
befalls  of  reaching  fame  at  once,  and  (if  it  is  of  any 
profit  morituro)  retaining  the  admiration  of  the  world. 
Did  poor  Oliver,  when  he  was  at  Leyden  yonder,  ever 
think  that  he  should  paint  a  little  picture  which  should 
secure  him  the  applause  and  pity  of  all  Europe  for  a 
century  after  ?  He  and  Sterne  drew  the  twenty  thou- 
sand prize  of  fame.  The  latter  had  splendid  install- 
ments during  his  lifetime.  The  ladies  pressed  round 
him ;  the  wits  admired  him ;  the  fashion  hailed  the 
successor  of  Eabelais.  Goldsmith's  little  gem  was 
hardly  so  valued  until  later  days.  Their  works  still 
form  the  wonder  and  delight  of  the  lovers  of  English 
art,  and  the  pictures  of  the  Yicar  and  Uncle  Toby  are 
among  the  masterpieces  of  our  English  school.  Here 
in  the  Hague  Gallery  is  Paul  Potter's  pale,  eager  face, 
and  yonder  is  the  magnificent  work  by  which  the 
young  fellow  achieved  his  fame.  How  did  you,  so 
young,  come  to  paint  so  well  ?  What  hidden  power 
lay  in  that  weakly  lad,  that  enabled  him  to  achieve 
such  a  wonderful  victory  ?  Could  little  Mozart,  when 
he  was  five  years  old,  tell  you  how  he  came  to  play 


271 

those  wonderful  sonatas?  Potter  was  gone  out  of  the 
world  before  he  was  thirty,  but  left  this  prodigy  (and 
I  know  not  how  many  more  specimens  of  his  genius 
and  skill)  behind  him.  The  details  of  this  admirable 
picture  are  as  curious  as  the  effect  is  admirable  and 
complete.  The  weather  being  unsettled,  and  clouds 
and  sunshine  in  the  gusty  sky,  we  saw  in  our  little 
tour  numberless  Paul  Potters — the  meadows  streaked 
with  sunshine  and  spotted  with  the  cattle,  the  city 
twinkling  in  the  distance,  the  thunder-clouds  glooming 
overhead.  Napoleon  carried  off  the  picture  {vide  Mur- 
ray) among  the  spoils  of  his  bow  and  spear  to  decorate 
his  triumph  of  the  Louvre.  If  I  were  a  conquering 
prince,  I  would  have  this  picture  certainly,  and  the 
Kaphael  Madonna  from  Dresden,  and  the  Titian  As- 
sumption from  Venice,  and  that  matchless  Rembrandt 
.  of  the  Dissection.  The  prostrate  nations  would  howl 
with  rage  as  my  gendarmes  took  off  the  pictures,  nice- 
ly packed  and  addressed  to  "  Mr.  the  Director  of  my 
Imperial  Palace  of  the  Louvre,  at  Paris.  This  side 
uppermost."  The  Austrians,  Prussians,  Saxons,  Ital- 
ians, etc.,  should  be  free  to  come  and  visit  my  capital, 
and  bleat  with  tears  before  the  pictures  torn  from  their 
native  cities.  Their  embassadors  would  meekly  re- 
monstrate, and  with  faded  grins  make  allusions  to  the 
feeling  of  despair  occasioned  by  the  absence  of  the  be- 
loved works  of  art.  Bah !  I  would  offer  them  a  pinch 
of  snuff  out  of  my  box  as  I  walked  along  my  gallery, 
with  their  excellencies  cringing  after  me.  Zenobia 
was  a  fine  woman  and  a  queen,  but  she  had  to  walk  in 
Aurelian's  triumph.  The procede  waspeu  delicat  ?  En 
usez  vous,  mon  cher  monsieur  ?     (The  marquis  says  the 


272  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

Macaba  is  delicious.)  What  a  splendor  of  color  there 
is  in  that  cloud  ?  What  a  richness,  what  a  freedom 
of  handling,  and  what  a  marvelous  precision !  I  trod 
upon  your  excellency's  corn?  a  thousand  pardons. 
His  excellency  grins  and  declares  that  he  rather  likes 
to  have  his  corns  trodden  on.  Were  you  ever  very 
angry  with  Soult — about  that  Murillo  which  we  have 
bought?  The  veteran  loved  that  picture  because  it 
saved  the  life  of  a  fellow-creature — the  fellow-creature 
who  hid  it,  and  whom  the  duke  intended  to  hang  un- 
less the  picture  was  forthcoming. 

We  gave  several  thousand  pounds  for  it — how  many 
thousand?  About  its  merit  is  a  question  of  taste 
which  we  will  not  here  argue.  If  you  choose  to  place 
Murillo  in  the  first  class  of  painters,  founding  his  claim 
upon  these  Virgin  altar-pieces,  I  am  your  humble  serv- 
ant. Tom  Moore  painted  altar-pieces  as  well  as  Mil- 
ton, and  warbled  Sacred  Songs  and  Loves  of  the  An- 
gels after  his  fashion.  I  wonder  did  Watteau  ever  try 
historical  subjects?  And  as  for  Greuze,  you  know 
that  his  heads  will  fetch  £1000,  £1500,  £2000— as 
much  as  a  Sevres  cabaret  of  Eose  du  Barri.  If  cost 
price  is  to  be  your  criterion  of  worth,  what  shall  we 
say  to  that  little  receipt  for  £10  for  the  copyright  of 
Paradise  Lost,  which  used  to  hang  in  old  Mr.  Kogers's 
room  ?  When  living  painters,  as  frequently  happens 
in  our  days,  see  their  pictures  sold  at  auctions  for  four 
or  five  times  the  sums  which  they  originally  received, 
are  they  enraged  or  elated?  A  hundred  years  ago 
the  state  of  the  picture-market  was  different:  that 
dreary  old  Italian  stock  was  much  higher  than  at  pres- 
ent ;  Eembrandt  himself,  a  close  man,  was  known  to 


NOTES   OF   A  WEEK'S   HOLIDAY.  273 

be  in  difficulties.  If  ghosts  are  fond  of  money  still, 
what  a  wrath  his  must  be  at  the  present  value  of  his 
works ! 

The  Hague  Rembrandt  is  the  greatest  and  grandest 
of  all  his  pieces,  to  my  mind.  Some  of  the  heads  are 
as  sweetly  and  lightly  painted  as  Gainsborough ;  the 
faces  not  ugly,  but  delicate  and  high  bred;  the  ex- 
quisite gray  tones  are  charming  to  mark  and  study ; 
the  heads  not  plastered,  but  painted  with  a  free,  liquid 
brush :  the  result,  one  of  the  great  victories  won  by 
this  consummate  chief,  and  left  for  the  wonder  and 
delight  of  succeeding  ages. 

The  humblest  volunteer  in  the  ranks  of  art,  who 
has  served  a  campaign  or  two  ever  so  ingloriously, 
has  at  least  this  good  fortune  of  understanding,  or 
fancying  he  is  able  to  understand,  how  the  battle  has 
been  fought,  and  how  the  engaged  general  won  it 
This  is  the  Rhinelander's  most  brilliant  achievement 
— victory  along  the  whole  line.  The  Night-watch  at 
Amsterdam  is  magnificent  in  parts,  but  on  the  side  to 
the  spectator's  right,  smoky  and  dim.  The  Five  Mas- 
ters of  the  Drapers  is  wonderful  for  depth,  strength, 
brightness,  massive  power.  What  words  are  these  to 
express  a  picture !  to  describe  a  description !  I  once 
saw  a  moon  riding  in  the  sky  serenely,  attended  by 
her  sparkling  maids  of  honor,  and  a  little  lady  said, 
with  an  air  of  great  satisfaction,  u I  must  sketch  it" 
Ah !  my  dear  lady,  if  with  an  H.  B.,  a  Bristol  board, 
and  a  bit  of  India-rubber,  you  can  sketch  the  starry 
firmament  on  high,  and  the  moon  in  her  glory,  I 
make  you  my  compliment !  I  can't  sketch  The  Five 
Drapers  with  any  ink  or  pen  at  present  at  command, 

M2 


274  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

but  can  look  with  all  my  eyes,  and  be  thankful  to 
have  seen  such  a  masterpiece. 

They  say  he  was  a  moody,  ill-conditioned  man,  the 
old  tenant  of  the  mill.  What  does  he  think  of  the 
Yander  Heist  which  hangs  opposite  his  Night-watch, 
and  which  is  one  of  the  great  pictures  of  the  world  ? 
It  is  not  painted  by  so  great  a  man  as  Eembrandt ; 
but  there  it  is :  to  see  it  is  an  event  of  your  life. 
Having  beheld  it,  you  have  lived  in  the  year  1648, 
and  celebrated  the  treaty  of  Munster.  You  have 
shaken  the  hands  of  the  Dutch  Guardsmen,  eaten  from 
their  platters,  drunk  their  Khenish,  heard  their  jokes 
as  they  wagged  their  jolly  beards.  The  Amsterdam 
Catalogue  discourses  thus  about  it :  a  model  catalogue : 
it  gives  you  the  prices  paid,  the  signatures  of  the 
painters,  a  succinct  description  of  the  work. 

"  This  masterpiece  represents  a  banquet  of  the  civic 
guard,  which  took  place  on  the  18th  of  June,  1648,  in 
the  great  hall  of  the  St.  Joris  Doele,  on  the  Singel  at 
Amsterdam,  to  celebrate  the  conclusion  of  the  Peace 
at  Munster.  The  thirty-five  figures  composing  the 
picture  are  all  portraits. 

"  The  Captain  Witse  is  placed  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  and  attracts  our  attention  first.  He  is  dressed 
in  black  velvet,  his  breast  covered  with  a  cuirass, 
on  his  head  a  broad-brimmed  black  hat  with  white 
plumes.  He  is  comfortably  seated  on  a  chair  of  black 
oak,  with  a  velvet  cushion,  and  holds  in  his  left  hand, 
supported  on  his  knee,  a  magnificent  drinking-horn, 
surrounded  by  a  St.  George  destroying  the  dragon, 
and  ornamented  with  olive-leaves.  The  captain's  feat- 
ures express  cordiality  and  good-humor ;  he  is  grasp- 


275 

ing  the  hand  of  Lieutenant  Van  Waveren  seated 
near  him,  in  a  habit  of  dark  gray,  with  lace  and 
buttons  of  gold,  lace  collar  and  wristbands,  his  feet 
crossed,  with  boots  of  yellow  leather,  with  large  tops, 
and  gold  spurs,  on  his  head  a  black  hat  and  dark 
brown  plumes.  Behind  him,  at  the  centre  of  the  pic- 
ture, is  the  standard-bearer,  Jacob  Banning,  in  an 
easy  martial  attitude,  hat  in  hand,  his  right  hand  on 
his  chair,  his  right  leg  on  his  left  knee.  He  holds  the 
flag  of  blue  silk,  in  which  the  Virgin  is  embroidered 
(such  a  silk !  such  a  flag !  such  a  piece  of  painting !), 
emblematic  of  the  town  of  Amsterdam.  The  banner 
covers  his  shoulder,  and  he  looks  toward  the  spectator 
frankly  and  complacently. 

"  The  man  behind  him  is  probably  one  of  the  ser- 
geants. His  head  is  bare.  He  wears  a  cuirass,  and 
yellow  gloves,  gray  stockings,  and  boots  with  large 
tops,  and  kneecaps  of  cloth.  He  has  a  napkin  on 
his  knees,  and  in  his  hand  a  piece  of  ham,  a  slice  of 
bread,  and  a  knife.  The  old  man  behind  is  prob- 
ably William  the  Drummer.  He  has  his  hat  in  his 
right  hand,  and  in  his  left  a  gold-footed  wineglass, 
filled  with  white  wine.  He  wears  a  red  scarf,  and  a 
black  satinet  doublet,  with  little  slashes  of  yellow  silk. 
Behind  the  drummer,  two  matchlock  men  are  seated 
at  the  end  of  the  table.  One  in  a  large  black  habit,  a 
napkin  on  his  knee,  a  hausse-col  of  iron,  and  a  linen 
scarf  and  collar.  He  is  eating  with  his  knife.  The 
other  holds  a  long  glass  of  white  wine.  Four  mus- 
keteers, with  different  shaped  hats,  are  behind  these, 
one  holding  a  glass,  the  three  others  with  their  guns 
on  their  shoulders.     Other  guests  are  placed  between 


276  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

the  personage  who  is  giving  the  toast  and  the  stand- 
ard-bearer. One  with  his  hat  off,  and  his  hand  up- 
lifted, is  talking  to  another.  The  second  is  carving  a 
fowl.  A  third  holds  a  silver  plate ;  and  another,  in 
the  background,  a  silver  flagon,  from  which  he  fills  a 
cup.  The  corner  behind  the  captain  is  filled  by  two 
seated  personages,  one  of  whom  is  peeling  an  orange. 
Two  others  are  standing,  armed  with  halberts,  of 
whom  one  holds  a  plumed  hat.  Behind  him  are  other 
three  individuals,  one  of  them  holding  a  pewter  pot, 
on  which  the  name  Poock,  the  landlord  of  the  Hotel 
Doele,  is  engraved.  At  the  back,  a  maid -servant 
is  coming  in  with  a  pasty,  crowned  with  a  turkey. 
Most  of  the  guests  are  listening  to  the  captain.  From 
an  open  window  in  the  distance  the  facades  of  two 
houses  are  seen,  surmounted  by  stone  figures  of 
sheep." 

There,  now  you  know  all  about  it ;  now  you  can  go 
home  and  paint  just  such  another.  If  you  do,  do  pray 
remember  to  paint  the  hands  of  the  figures  as  they  are 
here  depicted ;  they  are  as  wonderful  portraits  as  the 
faces.  None  of  your  slim  Yan  Dyck  elegancies,  which 
have  done  duty  at  the  cuffs  of  so  many  doublets; 
but  each  man  with  a  hand  for  himself,  as  with  a  face 
for  himself.  I  blushed  for  the  coarseness  of  one  of 
the  chiefs  in  this  great  company,  that  fellow  behind 
William  the  Drummer,  splendidly  attired,  sitting 
full  in  the  face  of  the  public,  and  holding  a  pork-bone 
in  his  hand.  Suppose  the  Saturday  Review  critic  were 
to  come  suddenly  on  this  picture  ?  Ah  !  what  a  shock 
it  would  give  that  noble  nature !  Why  is  that  knuckle 
of  pork  not  painted  out  ?  at  any  rate,  why  is  not  a 


NOTES  OF  A  WEEK'S  HOLIDAY.  277 

little  fringe  of  lace  painted  round  it,  or  a  cut  pink  pa- 
per? or  couldn't  a  smelling-bottle  be  painted  in  in- 
stead, with  a  crest  and  a  gold  top,  or  a  cambric  pocket- 
handkerchief,  in  lieu  of  the  horrid  pig,  with  a  pink 
coronet  in  the  corner?  or  suppose  you  covered  the 
man's  hand  (which  is  very  coarse  and  strong),  and 
gave  him  the  decency  of  a  kid  glove?  But  a  piece 
of  pork  in  a  naked  hand  ?  Oh  nerves  and  eau  de 
Cologne,  hide  it,  hide  it ! 

In  spite  of  this  lamentable  coarseness,  my  noble 
sergeant,  give  me  thy  hand  as  nature  made  it.  A 
great,  and  famous,  and  noble  handiwork  I  have  seen 
here.  Not  the  greatest  picture  in  the  world — not  a 
work  of  the  highest  genius  —  but  a  performance  so 
great,  various,  and  admirable,  so  shrewd  of  humor,  so 
wise  of  observation,  so  honest  and  complete  of  expres- 
sion, that  to  have  seen  it  has  been  a  delight,  and  to 
remember  it  will  be  a  pleasure  for  days  to  come. 
Well  done,  Bartholomeus  Vander  Heist !  Brave,  mer- 
itorious, victorious,  happy  Bartholomew,  to  whom  it 
has  been  given  to  produce  a  masterpiece ! 

May  I  take  off  my  hat  and  pay  a  respectful  compli- 
ment to  Jan  Steen,  Esq.  ?  He  is  a  glorious  composer. 
His  humor  is  as  frank  as  Fielding's.  Look  at  his  own 
figure  sitting  in  the  window-sill  yonder,  and  roaring 
with  laughter !  What  a  twinkle  in  the  eyes !  what  a 
mouth  it  is  for  a  song,  or  a  joke,  or  a  noggin  !  I  think 
the  composition  in  some  of  Jan's  pictures  amounts  to 
the  sublime,  and  look  at  them  with  the  same  delight 
and  admiration  which  I  have  felt  before  works  of  the 
very  highest  style.  This  gallery  is  admirable;  and 
the  city  in   which  the  gallery  is  is  perhaps  even 


278  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

more  wonderful  and  curious  to  behold  than  the  gal- 
lery. 

The  first  landing  at  Calais  (or,  I  suppose,  on  any 
foreign  shore) — the  first  sight  of  an  Eastern  city — the 
first  view  of  Venice  —  and  this  of  Amsterdam,  are 
among  the  delightful  shocks  which  I  have  had  as  a 
traveler.  Amsterdam  is  as  good  as  Yenice,  with  a 
superadded  humor  and  grotesqueness,  which  gives  the 
sight-seer  the  most  singular  zest  and  pleasure.  A  run 
through  Pekin  I  could  hardly  fancy  to  be  more  odd, 
strange,  and  yet  familiar.  This  rush,  and  crowd,  and 
prodigious  vitality ;  this  immense  swarm  of  life ;  these 
busy  waters,  crowding  barges,  swinging  drawbridges, 
piled  ancient  gables,  spacious  markets  teeming  with 
people ;  that  ever- wonderful  Jews'  quarter ;  that  dear 
old  world  of  painting  and  the  past,  yet  alive,  and 
throbbing,  and  palpable — actual,  and  yet  passing  be- 
fore you  swiftly  and  strangely  as  a  dream !  Of  the 
many  journeys  of  this  Eoundabout  life,  that  drive 
through  Amsterdam  is  to  be  specially  and  gratefully 
remembered.  You  have  never  seen  the  palace  of 
Amsterdam,  my  dear  sir?  Why,  there's  a  marble 
hall  in  that  palace  that  will  frighten  you  as  much  as 
any  hall  in  Vathek,  or  a  nightmare.  At  one  end  of 
that  old,  cold,  glassy,  glittering,  ghostly  marble  hall 
there  stands  a  throne,  on  which  a  white  marble  king 
ought  to  sit  with  his  white  legs  gleaming  down  into 
the  w'hite  marble  below,  and  his  white  eyes  looking 
at  a  great  white  marble  Atlas,  who  bears  on  his  icy 
shoulders  a  blue  globe  as  big  as  the  full  moon.  If  he 
were  not  a  genie,  and  enchanted,  and  with  a  strength 
altogether  hyperatlantean,  he  would  drop  the  moon 


279 
« 
with  a  shriek  on  to  the  white  marble  floor,  and  it 
would  splitter  into  perdition.  And  the  palace  would 
rock,  and  heave,  and  tumble ;  and  the  waters  would 
rise,  rise,  rise ;  and  the  gables  sink,  sink,  sink ;  and 
the  barges  would  rise  up  to  the  chimneys;  and  the 
water-souchee  fishes  would  flap  over  the  Boompjes, 
where  the  pigeons  and  storks  used  to  perch  ;  and  the 
Amster,  and  the  Eotter,  and  the  Saar,  and  the  Op, 
and  all  the  dams  of  Holland  would  burst,  and  the 
Zuyder  Zee  roll  over  the  dikes ;  and  you  would  wake 
out  of  your  dream,  and  find  yourself  sitting  in  your 
arm-chair. 

Was  it  a  dream  ?  it  seems  like  one.  Have  we  been 
to  Holland?  have  we  heard  the  chimes  at  midnight 
at  Antwerp?  Were  we  really  away  for  a  week,  or 
have  I  been  sitting  up  in  the  room  dozing  before  this 
stale  old  desk  ?  Here's  the  desk — yes.  But,  if  it  has 
been  a  dream,  how  could  I  have  learned  to  hum  that 
tune  out  of  Dinorah  ?  Ah  !  is  it  that  tune,  or  myself 
that  I  am  humming  ?  If  it  was  a  dream,  how  comes 
this  yellow  Notice  des  Tableaux  du  Musee  d' 
Amsterdam  avec  fac-simile  des  Monogrammes 
before  me,  and  this  signature  of  the  gallant 


Yes,  indeed,  it  was  a  delightful  little  holiday ;  it 
lasted  a  whole  week.  With  the  exception  of  that 
little  pint  of  amari  aliquid  at  Eotterdam,  we  were  all 
very  happy.  We  might  have  gone  on  being  happy 
for  whoever  knows  how  many  days  more?  a  week 


280  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

more,  ten  days  more — who  knows  how  long  that  dear 
teetotum  happiness  can  be  made  to  spin  without  top- 
pling over? 

But  one  of  the  party  had  desired  letters  to  be  sent 
poste  restante,  Amsterdam.  The  post-office  is  hard  by 
that  awful  palace  where  the  Atlas  is,  and  which  we 
really  saw. 

There  was  only  one  letter,  you  see.  Only  one 
chance  of  finding  us.  There  it  was.  "The  post  has 
only  this  moment  come  in,"  says  the  smirking  com- 
missioner. And  he  hands  over  the  paper,  thinking 
he  has  done  something  clever. 

Before  the  letter  had  been  opened,  I  could  read 
Come  back  as  clearly  as  if  it  had  been  painted  on 
the  wall.  It  was  all  over.  The  spell  was  broken. 
The  sprightly  little  holiday  fairy  that  had  frisked  and 
gamboled  so  kindly  beside  us  for  eight  days  of  sun- 
shine— or  rain,  which  was  as  cheerful  as  sunshine — 
gave  a  parting  piteous  look,  and  whisked  away  and 
vanished.  And  yonder  scuds  the  postman,  and  here 
is  the  old  desk. 


NIL  NISI  BONUM.  281 


NIL  NISI  BONUM 


Almost  the  last  words  which  Sir  Walter  spoke  to 
Lockhart,  his  biographer,  were,  "Bea  good  man,  my 
dear  I"  and  with  the  last  flicker  of  breath  on  his  dying 
lips,  he  sighed  a  farewell  to  his  family,  and  passed 
away  blessing  them. 

Two  men,  famous,  admired,  beloved,  have  just  left 
us,  the  Goldsmith  and  the  Gibbon  of  our  time.*  Ere 
a  few  weeks  are  over,  many  a  critic's  pen  will  be  at 
work,  reviewing  their  lives,  and  passing  judgment  on 
their  works.  This  is  no  review,  or  history,  or  criti- 
cism ;  only  a  word  in  testimony  of  respect  and  regard 
from  a  man  of  letters,  who  owes  to  his  own  profession- 
al labor  the  honor  of  becoming  acquainted  with  these 
two  eminent  literary  men.  One  was  the  first  embas- 
sador whom  the  New  World  of  Letters  sent  to  the  Old. 
He  was  born  almost  with  the  republic ;  the  pater  patrice 
had  laid  his  hand  on  the  child's  head.  He  bore  Wash- 
ington's name ;  he  came  among  us  bringing  the  kind- 
est sympathy,  the  most  artless,  smiling  good-will.  His 
new  country  (which  some  people  here  might  be  dis- 
posed to  regard  rather  superciliously)  could  send  us, 
as  he  showed  in  his  own  person,  a  gentleman,  who, 

*  Washington  Irving  died  November  28,  1859 ;  Lord  Macaulay 
died  December  28,  1859. 


282  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

though  himself  born  in  no  very  high  sphere,  was  most 
finished,  polished,  easy,  witty,  quiet,  and,  socially,  the 
equal  of  the  most  refined  Europeans.  If  Irving's  wel- 
come in  England  was  a  kind  one,  was  it  not  also  grate- 
fully remembered  ?  If  he  ate  our  salt,  did  he  not  pay 
us  with  a  thankful  heart?  Who  can  calculate  the 
amount  of  friendliness  and  good  feeling  for  our  coun- 
try which  this  writer's  generous  and  untiring  regard 
for  us  disseminated  in  his  own  ?  His  books  are  read 
by  millions*  of  his  countrymen,  whom  he  has  taught 
to  love  England,  and  why  to  love  her.  It  would  have 
been  easy  to  speak  otherwise  than  he  did ;  to  inflame 
national  rancors,  which,  at  the  time  when  he  first  be- 
came known  as  a  public  writer,  war  had  just  renewed ; 
to  cry  down  the  old  civilization  at  the  expense  of  the 
new ;  to  point  out  our  faults,  arrogance,  shortcomings, 
and  give  the  republic  to  infer  how  much  she  was  the 
parent  state's  superior.  There  are  writers  enough  in 
the  United  States,  honest  and  otherwise,  who  preach 
that  kind  of  doctrine.  But  the  good  Irving,  the  peace- 
ful, the  friendly,  had  no  place  for  bitterness  in  his 
heart,  and  no  scheme  but  kindness.  Eeceived  in  En- 
gland with  extraordinary  tenderness  and  friendship 
(Scott,  South ey,  Byron,  a  hundred  others  have  borne 
witness  to  their  liking  for  him),  he  was  a  messenger 
of  good  will  and  peace  between  his  country  and  ours. 
" See,  friends !"  he  seems  to  say,  "these  English  are 
not  so  wicked,  rapacious,  callous,  proud,  as  you  have 
been  taught  to  believe  them.  I  went  among  them  a 
humble  man ;  won  my  way  by  my  pen ;  and,  when 

*  See  his  Life  in  the  most  remarkable  Dictionary  of  Authors,  pub- 
lished lately  at  Philadelphia,  by  Mr.  Alibone. 


NIL  NISI  BONUM.  283 

known,  found  every  hand  held  out  to  me  with  kind- 
liness and  welcome.  Scott  is  a  great  man,  you  ac- 
knowledge. Did  not  Scott's  king  of  England  give  a 
gold  medal  to  him,  and  another  to  me,  your  country- 
man, and  a  stranger?" 

Tradition  in  the  United  States  still  fondly  retains 
the  history  of  the  feasts  and  rejoicings  which  awaited 
Irving  on  his  return  to  his  native  country  from  Eu- 
rope. He  had  a  national  welcome ;  he  stammered  in 
his  speeches,  hid  himself  in  confusion,  and  the  people 
loved  him  all  the  better.  He  had  worthily  represent- 
ed America  in  Europe.  In  that  young  community,  a 
man  who  brings  home  with  him  abundant  European 
testimonials  is  still  treated  with  respect  (I  have  found 
American  writers,  of  wide- world  reputation,  strangely 
solicitous  about  the  opinions  of  quite  obscure  British 
critics,  and  elated  or  depressed  by  their  judgments); 
and  Irving  went  home  medaled  by  the  king,  diploma- 
tized by  the  University,  crowned,  and  honored,  and 
admired.  He  had  not  in  any  way  intrigued  for  his 
honors,  he  had  fairly  won  them ;  and,  in  Irving's  in- 
stance, as  in  others,  the  old  country  was  glad  and  eager 
to  pay  them. 

In  America  the  love  and  regard  for  Irving  was  a 
national  sentiment.  Party  wars  are  perpetually  rag- 
ing there,  and  are  carried  on  by  the  press  with  a  ran- 
cor and  fierceness  against  individuals  which  exceed 
British,  almost  Irish  virulence.  It  seemed  to  me,  dur- 
ing a  year's  travel  in  the  country,  as  if  no  one  ever 
aimed  a  blow  at  Irving.  All  men  held  their  hand 
from  that  harmless,  friendly  peacemaker.  I  had  the 
good  fortune  to  see  him  at  New  York,  Philadelphia, 


284  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

Baltimore,  and  Washington,*  and  remarked  how  in 
every  place  he  was  honored  and  welcomed.  Every 
large  city  has  its  "  Irving  House."  The  country  takes 
pride  in  the  fame  of  its  men  of  letters.  The  gate  of 
his  own  charming  little  domain  on  the  beautiful  Hud- 
son Kiver  was  forever  swinging  before  visitors  who 
came  to  him.  He  shut  out  no  one.f  I  had  seen  many 
pictures  of  his  house,  and  read  descriptions  of  it,  in 
both  of  which  it  was  treated  with  a  not  unusual  Amer- 
ican exaggeration.  It  was  but  a  pretty  little  cabin  of 
a  place ;  the  gentleman  of  the  press  who  took  notes 
of  the  place,  while  his  kind  old  host  was  sleeping, 
might  have  visited  the  house  in  a  couple  of  minutes. 
And  how  came  it  that  this  house  was  so  small,  when 
Mr.  Irving's  books  were  sold  by  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands, nay,  millions,  when  his  profits  were  known  to 
be  large,  and  the  habits  of  life  of  the  good  old  bache- 
lor were  notoriously  modest  and  simple?  He  had 
loved  once  in  his  life.  The  lady  he  loved  died ;  and 
he,  whom  all  the  world  loved,  never  sought  to  replace 

*  At  Washington,  Mr.  Irving  came  to  a  lecture  given  by  the  writer, 
which  Mr.  Fillmore  and  General  Pierce,  the  president  and  president 
elect,  were  also  kind  enough  to  attend  together.  "Two  kings  of 
Brentford  smelling  at  one  rose,"  says  Irving,  looking  up  with  his 
good-humored  smile. 

f  Mr.  Irving  described  to  me,  with  that  humor  and  good  humor 
which  he  always  kept,  how,  among  other  visitors,  a  member  of  the 
British  press,  who  had  carried  his  distinguished  pen  to  America  (where 
he  employed  it  in  vilifying  his  own  country),  came  to  Sunnyside,  in- 
troduced himself  to  Irving,  partook  of  his  wine  and  luncheon,  and  in 
two  days  described  Mr.  Irving,  his  house,  his  nieces,  his  meal,  and  his 
manner  of  dozing  afterward,  in  a  New  York  paper.  On  another  oc- 
casion, Irving  said, laughing,  "Two  persons  came  to  me,  and  one  held 
me  in  conversation  while  the  other  miscreant  took  my  portrait!" 


NIL  NISI  BONUM.  285 

her.  I  can't  say  how  much  the  thought  of  that  fidel- 
ity has  touched  me.  Does  not  the  very  cheerfulness 
of  his  after  life  add  to  the  pathos  of  that  untold  story  ? 
To  grieve  always  was  not  in  his  nature ;  or,  when  he 
had  his  sorrow,  to  bring  all  the  world  in  to  condole 
with  him  and  bemoan  it.  Deep  and  quiet  he  lays  the 
love  of  his  heart,  and  buries  it,  and  grass  and  flowers 
grow  over  the  scarred  ground  in  due  time. 

Irving  had  such  a  small  house  and  such  narrow 
rooms  because  there  was  a  great  number  of  people  to 
occupy  them.  He  could  only  afford  to  keep  one  old 
horse  (which,  lazy  and  aged  as  it  was,  managed  once 
or  twice  to  run  away  with  that  careless  old  horseman). 
He  could  only  afford  to  give  plain  sherry  to  that  ami- 
able British  paragraph-monger  from  New  York,  who 
saw  the  patriarch  asleep  over  his  modest,  blameless 
cup,  and  fetched  the  public  into  his  private  chamber 
to  look  at  him.  Irving  could  only  live  very  modest- 
ly, because  the  wifeless,  childless  man  had  a  number 
of  children  to  whom  he  was  as  a  father.  He  had  as 
many  as  nine  nieces,  I  am  told — I  saw  two  of  these 
ladies  at  his  house — with  all  of  whom  the  dear  old 
man  had  shared  the  produce  of  his  labor  and  genius. 

"Be  a  good  man,  my  dear.11  One  can't  but  think  of 
these  last  words  of  the  veteran  Chief  of  Letters,  who 
had  tasted  and  tested  the  value  of  worldly  success,  ad- 
miration, prosperity.  "Was  Irving  not  good,  and,  of 
his  works,  was  not  his  life  the  best  part  ?  In  his  fam- 
ily, gentle,  generous,  good-humored,  affectionate,  self- 
denying  ;  in  society,  a  delightful  example  of  complete 
gentlemanhood ;  quite  unspoiled  by  prosperity ;  never 
obsequious  to  the  great  (or,  worse  still,  to  the  base  and 


286  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

mean,  as  some  public  men  are  forced  to  be  in  his  and 
other  countries);  eager  to  acknowledge  every  con- 
temporary's merit ;  always  kind  and  affable  with  the 
young  members  of  his  calling;  in  his  professional 
bargains  and  mercantile  dealings  delicately  honest  and 
grateful ;  one  of  the  most  charming  masters  of  our 
lighter  language;  the  constant  friend  to  us  and  our 
nation  ;  to  men  of  letters  doubly  dear,  not  for  his  wit 
and  genius  merely,  but  as  an  exemplar  of  goodness, 
probity,  and  pure  life.  I  don't  know  what  sort  of  tes- 
timonial will  be  raised  to  him  in  his  own  country, 
where  generous  and  enthusiastic  acknowledgment  of 
American  merit  is  never  wanting ;  but  Irving  was  in 
our  service  as  well  as  theirs ;  and  as  they  have  placed 
a  stone  at  Greenwich  yonder  in  memory  of  that  gal- 
lant young  Bellot,  who  shared  the  perils  and  fate  of 
some  of  our  Arctic  seamen,  I  would  like  to  hear  of 
some  memorial  raised  by  English  writers  and  friends 
of  letters  in  affectionate  remembrance  of  the  dear  and 
good  Washington  Irving. 

As  for  the  other  writer,  whose  departure  many 
friends,  some  few  most  dearly -loved  relatives,  and 
multitudes  of  admiring  readers  deplore,  our  republic 
has  already  decreed  his  statue,  and  he  must  have 
known  that  he  had  earned  this  posthumous  honor. 
He  is  not  a  poet  and  man  of  letters  merely,  but 
citizen,  statesman,  a  great  British  worthy.  Almost 
from  the  first  moment  when  he  appears,  among  boys, 
among  college  students,  among  men,  he  is  marked, 
and  takes  rank  as  a  great  Englishman.  All  sorts  of 
successes  are  easy  to  him  :  as  a  lad  he  goes  down  into 
the  arena  with  others,  and  wins  all  the  prizes  to  which 


NIL  NISI  BONUM.  287 

he  has  a  mind.-  A  place  in  the  Senate  is  straightway 
offered  to  the  young  man.  He  takes  his  seat  there ; 
he  speaks,  when  so  minded,  without  party  anger  or 
intrigue,  but  not  without  party  faith  and  a  sort  of 
heroic  enthusiasm  for  his  cause.  Still  he  is  poet  and 
philosopher  even  more  than  orator.  That  he  may 
have  leisure  and  means  to  pursue  his  darling  studies, 
he  absents  himself  for  a  while,  and  accepts  a  richly- 
remunerative  post  in  the  East.  As  learned  a  man 
may  live  in  a  cottage  or  a  college  common-room  ;  but 
it  always  seemed  to  me  that  ample  means  and  recog- 
nized rank  were  Macaulay's  as  of  right.  Years  ago 
there  was  a  wretched  outcry  raised  because  Mr.  Ma- 
caulay  dated  a  letter  from  Windsor  Castle,  where  he 
was  staying.  Immortal  gods !  Was  this  man  not  a 
fit  guest  for  any  palace  in  the  world?  or  a  fit  com- 
panion for  any  man  or  woman  in  it?  I  dare  say, 
after  Austerlitz,  the  old  K.  K.  court  officials  and  foot- 
men sneered  at  Napoleon  for  dating  from  Schonbrunn. 
But  that  miserable  "  Windsor  Castle"  outcry  is  an 
echo  out  of  fast-retreating  Old- World  remembrances. 
The  place  of  such  a  natural  chief  was  among  the  first 
of  the  land ;  and  that  country  is  best,  according  to  our 
British  notion,  at  least,  where  the  man  of  eminence 
has  the  best  chance  of  investing  his  genius  and  intel- 
lect. 

If  a  company  of  giants  were  got  together,  very  like- 
ly one  or  two  of  the  mere  six-feet-six  people  might  be 
angry  at  the  incontestable  superiority  of  the  very  tall- 
est of  the  party ;  and  so  I  have  heard  some  London 
wits,  rather  peevish  at  Macaulay's  superiority,  com- 
plain that  he  occupied  too  much  of  the  talk,  and  so 


288  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

forth.  Now  that  wonderful  tongue  is  to  speak  no 
more,  will  not  many  a  man  grieve  that  he  no  longer 
has  the  chance  to  listen  ?  To  remember  the  talk  is  to 
wonder ;  to  think  not  only  of  the  treasures  he  had  in 
his  memory,  but  of  the  trifles  he  had  stored  there,  and 
could  produce  with  equal  readiness.  Almost  on  the 
last  day  I  had  the  fortune  to  see  him,  a  conversation 
happened  suddenly  to  spring  up  about  senior  wran- 
glers, and  what  they  had  done  in  after  life.  To  the 
almost  terror  of  the  persons  present,  Macaulay  began 
with  the  senior  wrangler  of  1801-2-3-4,  and  so  on,  giv- 
ing the  name  of  each,  and  relating  his  subsequent  ca- 
reer and  rise.  Every  man  who  has  known  him  has 
his  story  regarding  that  astonishing  memory.  It  may 
be  that  he  was  not  ill  pleased  that  you  should  recog- 
nize it;  but  to  those  prodigious  intellectual  feats, 
which  were  so  easy  to  him,  who  would  grudge  his 
tribute  of  homage  ?  His  talk  was,  in  a  word,  admi- 
rable, and  we  admired  it. 

Of  the  notices  which  have  appeared  regarding  Lord 
Macaulay,  up  to  the  day  when  the  present  lines  are 
written  (the  9th  of  January),  the  reader  should  not 
deny  himself  the  pleasure  of  looking  especially  at 
two.  It  is  a  good  sign  of  the  times  when  such  articles 
as  these  (I  mean  the  articles  in  The  Times  and  Satur- 
day Review)  appear  in  our  public  prints  about  our 
public  men.  They  educate  us,  as  it  were,  to  admire 
rightly.  An  uninstructed  person  in  a  museum  or  at 
a  concert  may  pass  by  without  recognizing  a  picture 
or  a  passage  of  music,  which  the  connoisseur  by  his 
side  may  show  him  is  a  masterpiece  of  harmony  or  a 
wonder  of  artistic  skill.     After  reading  these  papers. 


■   NIL  NISI   BONUM.  289 

you  like  and  respect  more  the  person  you  have  ad- 
mired so  much  already.  And  so,  -with  regard  to  Ma- 
caulay's  style,  there  may  be  faults  of  course — what 
critic  can't  point  them  out?  But  for  the  nonce  we 
are  not  talking  about  faults ;  we  want  to  say  nil  nisi 
bonum.  Well,  take  at  hazard  any  three  pages  of  the 
Essays  or  History  ;  and,  glimmering  below  the  stream 
of  the  narrative,  as  it  were,  you,  an  average  reader, 
see  one,  two,  three,  a  half  score  of  allusions  to  other 
historic  facts,  characters,  literature,  poetry,  with  which 
you  are  acquainted.  Why  is  this  epithet  used? 
Whence  is  that  simile  drawn?  How  does  he  man- 
age, in  two  or  three  words,  to  paint  an  individual,  or 
to  indicate  a  landscape?  Your  neighbor,  who  has 
his  reading,  and  his  little  stock  of  literature  stowed 
away  in  his  mind,  shall  detect  more  points,  allusions, 
happy  touches,  indicating  not  only  the  prodigious 
memory  and  vast  learning  of  this  master,  but  the  won- 
derful industry,  the  honest,  humble  previous  toil  of 
this  great  scholar.  He  reads  twenty  books  to  write 
a  sentence;  he  travels  a  hundred  miles  to  make  a  line 
of  description. 

Many  Londoners — not  all — have  seen  the  British 
Museum  Library.  I  speak  a  cceur  ouverl,  and  pray 
the  kindly  reader  to  bear  with  me.  I  have  seen-  all 
sorts  of  domes  of  Peters  and  Pauls,  Sophia,  Pantheon 
— what  not? — and  have  been  struck  by  none  of -them 
so  much  as  by  that  catholic  dome  in  Bloomsbury,  un- 
der which  our  million  volumes  are  housed.  What 
peace,  what  love,  what  truth,  what  beauty,  what  hap- 
piness for  all,  what  generous  kindness  for  you  and  me, 
are  here  spread  out !     It  seems  to  me  one  can  not  sit 

N 


290  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

down  in  that  place  without  a  heart  full  of  grateful 
reverence.  I  own  to  have  said  my  grace  at  the  table, 
and  to  have  thanked  heaven  for  this  my  English 
birthright,  freely  to  partake  of  these  bountiful  books, 
and  to  speak  the  truth  I  find  there.  Under  the  dome 
which  held  Macaulay's  brain,  and  from  which  his  sol- 
emn eyes  looked  out  on  Jhe  world  but  a  fortnight 
since,  what  a  vast,  brilliant,  and  wonderful  store  of 
learning  was  ranged !  what  strange  lore  would  he  not 
fetch  for  you  at  your  bidding !  A  volume  of  law  or 
history,  a  book  of  poetry  familiar  or  forgotten  (except 
by  himself  who  forgot  nothing),  a  novel  ever  so  old, 
and  he  had  it  at  hand.  I  spoke  to  him  once  about 
Clarissa.  "Not  read  Clarissa!"  he  cried  out.  "If 
you  have  once  thoroughly  entered  on  Clarissa,  and 
are  infected  by  it,  you  can't  leave  it.  When  I  was  in 
India  I  passed  one  hot  season  at  the  hills,  and  there 
were  the  governor  general,  and  the  secretary  of  gov- 
ernment, and  the  commander-in-chief,  and  their  wives. 
I  had  Clarissa  with  me ;  and,  as  soon  as  they  began 
to  read,  the  whole  station  was  in  a  passion  of  excite- 
ment about  Miss  Harlowe  and  her  misfortunes,  and 
her  scoundrelly  Lovelace !  The  governor's  wife  seized 
the  book,  and  the  secretary  waited  for  it,  and  the 
chief  justice  could  not  read  it  for  tears!"  He  acted 
the  whole  scene;  he  paced  up  and  down  the  Athe- 
naeum library ;  I  dare  say  he  could  have  spoken  pages 
of  the  book — of  that  book,  and  of  what  countless  piles 
of  others ! 

In  this  little  paper  let  us  keep  to  the  text  of  nil 
nisi  bonum.  One  paper  I  have  read  regarding  Lord 
Macaulay  says  "he  had  no  heart."     Why,  a   man's 


NIL   NISI   BONUM.  291 

books  may  not  always  speak  the  truth,  but  they  speak 
his  mind  in  spite  of  himself;  and  it  seems  to  me  this 
man's  heart  is  beating  through  every  page  he  penned. 
He  is  always  in  a  storm  of  revolt  and  indignation 
against  wrong,  craft,  tyranny.  How  he  cheers  heroic 
resistance ;  how  he  backs  and  applauds  freedom  strug- 
gling for  its  own ;  how  he  hates  scoundrels,  ever  so 
victorious  and  successful ;  how  he  recognizes  genius, 
though  selfish  villains  possess  it!  The  critic  who  says 
Macaulay  had  no  heart,  might  say  that  Johnson  had 
none ;  and  two  men  more  generous,  and  more  loving, 
and  more  hating,  and  more  partial,  and  more  noble, 
do  not  live  in  our  history.  Those  who  knew  Lord 
Macaulay  knew  how  admirably  tender,  and  generous,* 
and  affectionate  he  was.  It  was  not  his  business  to 
bring  his  family  before  the  theatre  footlights,  and  call 
for  bouquets  from  the  gallery  as  he  wept  over  them. 
If  any  young  man  of  letters  reads  this  little  sermon 
— and  to  him,  indeed,  it  is  addressed — I  would  say  to 
him,  "Bear  Scott's  words  in  your  mind,  and  *  be  good, 
my  dear.1 "  Here  are  two  literary  men  gone  to  their 
account,  and,  laus  Deo,  as  far  as  we  know,  it  is  fair, 
and  open,  and  clean.  Here  is  no  need  of  apologies 
for  shortcomings,  or  explanations  of  vices  which  would 
have  been  virtues  but  for  unavoidable  etc.  Here  are 
two  examples  of  men  most  differently  gifted :  each 
pursuing  his  calling ;  each  speaking  his  truth  as  God 
bade  him ;  each  honest  in  his  life ;  just  and  irreproach- 

*  Since  the  above  was  written,  I  have  been  informed  that  it  has 
been  found,  on  examining  Lord  Macaulay's  papers,  that  he  was  in 
the  habit  of  giving  away  ynore  than  a  fourth  part  of  his  annual  in- 
come. 


292  BOUNDABOUT  PAPEBS. 

able  in  his  dealings ;  dear  to  his  friends ;  honored  by 
his  country ;  beloved  at  his  fireside.  It  has  been  the 
fortunate  lot  of  both  to  give  incalculable  happiness 
and  delight  the  world,  which  thanks  them  in  return 
with  an  immense  kindliness,  respect,  affection.  It 
may  not  be  our  chance,  brother  scribe,  to  be  endowed 
with  such  merit,  or  rewarded  with  such  fame.  But 
the  rewards  of  these  men  are  rewards  paid  to  our  serv- 
ice. We  may  not  win  the  baton  or  epaulettes,  but 
God  give  us  strength  to  guard  the  honor  of  the  flag ! 


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A/T'GREGOR'S  SYSTEM  OF  LOGIC.     A  System 

■*■■■■  of  Logic,  comprising  a  Discussion  of  the  various  Means  of 
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M 


Harper  &  Brothers'  List  of  New  Books.        3 

ISS  MULOCK'S  FAIRY  STORIES.    The  Fairy 

Book.  The  best  Popular  Fairy  Stories  selected  and  ren- 
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man," "  Olive,"  "The  Ogilvies,"  &c,  &c.  Illustrations. 
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>T.  OLAVE'S.      A  Novel.      8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 


A    FIRST  FRIENDSHIP.     A  Tale.     8vo,   Paper, 

"*■         25  cents. 


K 


NAPP'S  FRENCH  READING-BOOK.    CHRES- 

TOMATHIE  FRANQAISE ;  Containing  I.  Selections  from 
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Author's  French  Grammar.  II.  The  Master  -  Pieces  of  Mo- 
liere,  Racine,  Boileau,  and  Voltaire ;  with  Explanatory  Notes, 
a  Glossary  of  Idiomatic  Phrases,  and  a  Vocabulary.  By 
William  J.  Knapp,  A.M.,  Professor  of  Modern  Languages 
and  Literature  in  Madison  University,  N.  Y.  12mo,  Cloth, 
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TjOOKER'S  NATURAL  PHILOSOPHY.    Science 

■*■  ■*•  for  the  School  and  Family.  Part  I.  Natural  Philosophy.  By 
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/CHRONICLES  OF  CARLINGFORD.    A  Novel. 

^  By  Mrs.  Oliphant,  Author  of  "  The  Life  of  Edward  Irving," 
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4         Harper  &  Brothers1  List  of  New  Books. 
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William  Kinglake.  With  Maps  and  Plans.  2  vols.  12mo, 
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<HE   BOYHOOD   OF  MARTIN  LUTHER ;   or, 

the  Sufferings  of  the  Heroic  Little  Beggar-Boy,  who  after- 
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oYLVIA'S  LOVERS.    A  Novel.    By  Mrs.  Gaskell, 


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DARK  NIGHT'S  WORK.  A  Tale.  By  Mrs. 
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/GENERAL  BUTTERFIELD'S  CAMP  AND  OUT- 

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